THE* 
BUSHWHACKERS 

OTHER  STORIES 


CHARLES  EGBERT 
CRADDOCK 


THE  BUSHWHACKERS 

£5? 
OTHER  STORIES 


THE 

Bushwhackers 


Other  Stories 

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.  . 

CHARLES  EGBERT  CRADDOCK _& 

AUTHOR   OF   "IN    THE   TENNESSEE    MOUNTAINS,"    "  THE 
STORY  OF  OLD   FORT  LOUDON,"   ETC. 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  y  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  y  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCXCIX 


COPYRIGHT    1899    BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  BUSHWHACKERS  ....  3 
THE  PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE  .  119 
THE  EXPLOIT  OF  CHOOLAH,  THE  CHICKASAW  2 1 7 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 


CHAPTER  I 

One  might  have  imagined  that  there 
was  some  enchantment  in  the  spot 
which  drew  hither  daily  the  young 
mountaineer's  steps.  No  visible  lure  it 
showed.  No  prosaic  reasonable  errand 
he  seemed  to  have.  But  always  at  some 
hour  between  the  early  springtide  sun 
rise  and  the  late  vernal  sunset  Hilary 
Knox  climbed  the  craggy,  almost  in 
accessible  steeps  to  this  rocky  promon 
tory,  that  jutted  out  in  a  single  sharp 
peak,  not  only  beetling  far  over  the 
sea  of  foliage  in  the  wooded  valley 
below,  but  rising  high  above  the  dense 
forests  of  the  slope  of  the  mountain, 
3 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 


from  the  summit  of  which  it  projected. 
Here  he  would  stand,  shading  his  eyes 
with  his  hand,  and  gaze  far  and  near 
over  the  great  landscape.  At  first  he 
seemed  breathless  with  eager  expecta 
tion  ;  then  earnestly  searching  lest  there 
should  be  aught  overlooked;  at  last 
dully,  wistfully  dwelling  on  the  scene 
in  the  full  realization  of  the  pangs 
of  disappointment  for  the  absence  of 
something  he  fain  would  see. 

Always  he  waited  as  long  as  he 
could,  as  if  the  chance  of  any  moment 
might  conjure  into  the  landscape,  bril 
liant  with  the  vivid  growths  and  ten 
der  grace  of  the  spring,  that  for  which 
he  looked  in  vain.  A  wind  would 
come  up  the  gorge  and  flutter  about 
him,  as  he  stood  poised  on  the  upward 
slant  of  the  rock,  the  loftiest  point  of 
the  mountain.  If  it  were  a  young 
and  frisky  zephyr,  but  lately  loosed 
from  the  cave  of  ALolus,  which  surely 
4 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

must  be  situated  near  at  hand — on  the 
opposite  spur  perhaps,  so  windy  was 
the  ravine,  so  tumultuous  the  contin 
ual  coming  and  going  of  the  currents 
of  the  air, — he  must  needs  risk  his  bal 
ance  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  crag  to 
hold  on  to  his  hat.  And  sometimes 
the  frolicsome  breeze  like  other  gay 
young  sprites  would  not  have  done 
with  playing  tag,  and  when  he  thought 
himself  safe  and  lowered  his  hand  to 
shade  his  eyes,  again  the  wind  would 
twitch  it  by  the  brim  and  scurry  away 
down  the  ravine,  making  all  the  trees 
ripple  with  murmurous  laughter  as  it 
sped  to  the  valley,  while  Hilary  would 
gasp  and  plunge  forward  and  once 
more  clutch  his  hat,  then  again  look 
out  to  descry  perchance  what  he  so 
ardently  longed  to  see  in  the  distance. 
Some  pleasant  vision  he  surely  must 
have  expected  —  something  charming 
to  the  senses  or  promissory  of  weal 
5 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

or  happiness  it  must  have  been;  for 
his  cheek  flushed  scarlet  and  his  pulses 
beat  fast  at  the  very  thought. 

No  one  noticed  his  coming  or  going. 
All  boys  are  a  species  of  vagrant  fowl, 
and  with  the  daily  migrations  back  and 
forth  of  a  young  mountaineer  espe 
cially,  no  steady-minded,  elder  person 
would  care  to  burden  his  observation. 
Another  kind  of  fowl,  an  eagle,  had 
built  a  nest  in  the  bare  branches  at 
the  summit  of  an  isolated  pine  tree,  of 
which  only  the  lower  boughs  were 
foliaged,  and  this  was  higher  even  than 
the  peak  to  which  Hilary  daily  repaired 
for  the  earliest  glimpse  of  his  material 
ized  hopes  advancing  down  the  gorge. 
The  pair  of  birds  only  of  all  the  deni 
zens  of  the  mountain  took  heed  of  his 
movements  and  displayed  an  anxiety 
and  suspicion  and  a  sort  of  fierce  but 
fluttered  indignation.  It  is  impossible 
to  say  whether  they  were  aware  that 
6 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

their  variety  had  grown  rare  in  these 
parts,  and  that  their  capture,  dead  or 
alive,  would  be  a  matter  of  very  consid 
erable  interest,  and  it  is  also  futile  to 
speculate  as  to  whether  they  had  any 
knowledge  of  the  uses  or  range  of  the 
rifle  which  Hilary  sometimes  carried  on 
his  shoulder.  Certain  it  is,  however,  the 
male  bird  muttered  indignantly  as  he 
looked  down  at  the  young  mountain 
eer,  and  was  wont  to  agitatedly  flop 
about  the  great  clumsy  nest  of  inter 
woven  sticks  where  the  female,  the 
larger  of  the  two,  with  a  steady  courage 
sat  motionless,  only  her  elongated  neck 
and  bright  dilation  of  the  eyes  betoken 
ing  her  excitement  and  distress.  The 
male  bird  was  of  a  more  reckless  tend 
ency,  and  often  visibly  strove  with  an 
intermittent  intention  of  swooping 
down  to  attack  the  intruder,  for  Hilary 
was  but  a  slender  fellow  of  about  six 
teen  years,  although  tall  and  fleet  of 
7 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

foot.  A  good  shot,  too,  he  was,  and  he 
had  steady  nerves,  despite  the  glitter  of 
excitement  in  his  eyes  forever  gazing 
down  the  gorge.  Because  of  his  ab 
sorption  in  this  expectation  he  took  no 
notice  of  the  eagles,  although  to  justify 
his  long  absences  from  home  he  often 
brought  his  rifle  on  the  plea  of  hunt 
ing.  How  should  he  care  to  observe 
the  birds  when  at  any  moment  he 
might  see  the  flutter  of  a  guidon  in  the 
valley  road,  a  mere  path  from  this 
height,  and  hear  the  trumpet  sing  out 
sweet  and  clear  in  the  silence  of  the 
wilderness!  At  any  moment  the  wind 
might  bring  the  sound  of  the  tramp  of 
cavalry,  the  clatter  of  the  carbine  and 
canteen,  and  the  clanking  of  spur  and 
saber  as  some  wild  band  of  guerrillas 
came  raiding  through  the  country. 

For  despite  the  solemn  stillness  that 
brooded  in  the  similitude  of  the  deep 
est  peace  upon  the  scene,  war  was  still 
8 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

rife  in  the  land.  The  theater  of  action 
was  far  from  this  sequestered  region, 
but  there  had  been  times  when  the 
piny  gorges  were  full  of  the  more 
prickly  growth  of  bayonets.  The 
echoing  crags  were  taught  the  thrilling 
eloquence  of  the  bugle,  and  the  moun 
tains  reverberated  with  the  oratory  of 
the  cannon — for  the  artillery  learned 
to  climb  the  deer-paths.  There  was 
a  fine  panorama  once  in  the  twilight 
when  a  battery  on  the  heights  shelled 
the  woods  in  the  valley,  and  tiny 
white  clouds  with  hearts  of  darting 
fire  described  swift  aerial  curves,  the 
fuses  burning  brightly  against  the 
bland  blue  sky,  ere  that  supreme 
moment  of  explosion  when  the  burst 
ing  fragments  hurtled  wildly  through 
the  air. 

Occasionally  a  cluster  of  white  tents 
would  spring  up  like  mushrooms  at  the 
base  of  a  mountain  spur — gone  as  sud- 
9 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

denly  as  they  had  come,  leaving  a  bed 
of  embers  where  the  camp-fires  had 
been,  a  vague  wreath  of  smoke  and 
little  trace  besides,  for  the  felled  trees 
cut  for  fuel  made  scant  impression 
upon  the  densities  of  the  wilderness, 
and  the  rocks  were  immutable. 

And  then  for  months  a  primeval 
silence  and  loneliness  might  enfold  the 
mountains. 

"  Ef  they  kem  agin,  ef  ever  they  kem 
agin,  I'll  jine  'em — I'll  jine  'em," 
cried  Hilary  out  of  a  full  heart  as  he 
stood  and  gazed. 

And  this  was  the  reason  he  watched 
daily  and  sometimes  deep  into  the 
night,  lest  coming  under  cover  of  the 
darkness  they  might  depart  before  the 
dawn,  leaving  only  the  embers  of  their 
camp-fires  to  tell  of  their  vanished 
presence. 

The  prospect  stirred  the  boy's  heart. 
He  longed  to  be  in  the  midst  of  action, 

10 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

to  take  a  man's  part  in  the  great  strug 
gle,  to  live  the  life  and  do  the  faithful 
devoir  of  a  soldier.  He  was  young 
but  he  was  strong,  and  he  felt  that  here 
he  was  biding  at  home  as  if  he  were 
no  more  fit  for  the  military  duty  he 
yearned  to  assume  than  was  the  mil 
ler's  daughter,  Delia  Noakes. 

"I  tole  Dely  yesterday  ez  I'd  git  her 
ter  1'arn  me  ter  spin  ef  ye  kep'  me 
hyar  much  longer,"  he  said  one  day 
petulantly  to  his  mother.  "I'll  jes' 
set  an'  spin  like  a  sure-enough  gal  ef 
ye  won't  let  me  go  an'  jine  the  army 
like  a  boy." 

"I  ain't  never  gin  my  word  agin  yer 
goin',"  the  widow  would  temporize, 
alarmed  by  the  possibility  of  his  run 
ning  away  without  permission  if  defi 
nitely  forbidden  to  enlist,  and  therefore 
craftily  holding  out  the  prospect  of 
her  consent,  which  she  knew  he  valued, 
for  he  had  always  been  a  dutiful  son, 
n 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

"I  hev  never  gin  my  word  agin  it — not 
sence  ye  hev  got  some  growth — ye 
shot  up  as  suddint  ez  Jonah's  gourd  in 
a  single  night.  But  I  don't  want  ye 
ter  jine  no  stray  bands — ez  mought  be 
bushwhackers  an'  sech.  Jes'  wait  till 
we  git  the  word  whar  Cap'n  Baker's 
command  be — fur  I  want  ye  ter  be 
under  some  ez  kem  from  our  dees- 
trie' — I'd  feel  so  much  safer  bout'n  ye, 
an'  ye  would  be  pleased,  too,  Cap'n 
Baker  bein'  a  powerful  fighter  an' 
brave  an'  respected  by  all.  Ye  mus' 
wait,  too,  till  I  kin  finish  yer  new  shuts, 
an'  knittin'  them  socks;  I  wouldn't 
feel  right  fur  ye  to  go  destitute — a 
plumb  beggar  fur  clothes." 

Hilary  had  never  heard  of  Penel 
ope's  web,  and  the  crafty  device  of 
raveling  out  at  night  the  work  achieved 
in  the  day,  but  to  his  impatience  it 
seemed  that  his  departure  was  in 
definitely  postponed  for  his  simple 

12 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

outfit  progressed  no  whit  day  by  day, 
although  his  mother's  show  of  industry 
was  great. 

The  earth  also  seemed  to  have  swal 
lowed  Captain  Baker  and  his  command ; 
although  Hilary  rode  again  and  again 
to  the  postoffice  at  a  little  mountain 
hamlet  some  ten  miles  distant,  and 
talked  to  all  informed  and  discerning 
persons  whom  the  hope  of  learning  the 
latest  details  of  the  events  of  the  war 
had  drawn  thither,  and  could  hear 
news  of  any  description  to  suit  the 
taste  of  the  narrator — all  the  most 
reliable  items  of  the  "  grape-vine  tele 
graph,"  as  mere  rumor  used  to  be 
called  in  those  days — not  one  word 
came  of  Captain  Baker. 

His  mother  sometimes  could  con 
trol  his  outbursts  of  impatience  on 
these  occasions  by  ridicule. 

"'Member  the  time,  Hil'ry,"  she 
would  say,  glancing  at  him  with  wag- 
13 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

gish  mock  gravity  in  her  eyes  as  they 
gleamed  over  her  spectacles,  "when 
ye  offered  ter  enlist  with  Cap'n  Baker's 
infantry  year  afore  las',  when  the  war 
fust  broke  out — ye  warn't  no  higher 
than  that  biscuit  block  then — he  tole 
ye  that  ye  warn't  up  ter  age  or  size  or 
weight  or  height,  an'  ye  tole  him  that 
thar  war  a  plenty  of  ye  ter  pull  a  trig 
ger,  an'  he  bust  out  laughin'  an'  lowed 
ez  he  warn't  allowed  ter  enlist  men 
under  fourteen.  He  said  he  thunk  it 
war  a  folly  in  the  rule,  fur  he  had  seen 
some  mighty  old  men  under  fourteen 
— though  none  so  aged  ez  you-uns. 
My,  how  he  did  laugh." 

"I  wish  ye  would  quit  tellin'  that 
old  tale,"  said  her  son,  sulkily,  his 
face  reddening  with  the  mingled  recol 
lection  of  his  own  absurdity  and  the 
seriousness  with  which  in  his  simplicity 
he  had  listened  to  the  officer's  ridicule. 

"An'  ye  war  so  special  small-sized 
H 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

and  spindlin'  then,"  exclaimed  his 
mother,  pausing  in  her  knitting  to 
take  off  her  spectacles  to  wipe  away 
the  tears  of  laughter  that  had  gathered 
at  the  recollection. 

"I  ain't  small-sized  an'  spindling 
now,"  said  Hilary,  drawing  himself  up 
to  his  full  height  and  bridling  with 
offended  dignity  in  the  consciousness 
of  his  inches  and  his  muscles.  "I 
know  ez  Cap'n  Baker  or  enny  other 
officer  would  'list  me  now,  for  though 
I  ain't  quite  sixteen  I  be  powerful  well 
growed  fur  my  age." 

As  he  realized  this  anew  his  flush 
deepened  as  he  stood  and  looked  down 
at  the  fire,  while  his  mother  covertly 
watched  his  expression.  He  felt  it  a 
burning  shame  that  he  should  still 
linger  here  laggard  when  all  his  instinct 
was  to  help  and  sustain  the  cause  of 
his  countrymen.  His  loyalty  was  to 
the  sense  of  home.  His  impulse  was 
15 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

to  repel  the  invader,  although  the  ma 
jority  of  the  mountaineers  of  East 
Tennessee  were  for  the  Union,  and 
many  fought  for  the  old  flag  against 
their  neighbors  and  often  against  their 
close  kindred,  so  stanch  was  their  loy 
alty  in  those  times  that  tried  men's 
souls. 

One  day,  as  Hilary,  straining  his 
eyes,  stood  on  his  perch  on  the  crag, 
he  beheld  fluttering  far,  far  away — was 
it  a  wreath  of  mist  floating  along  the 
level,  sinuous  curves  of  the  distant 
valley  road — a  wreath  of  mist  astir  on 
some  gentle  current  of  the  atmosphere? 
He  had  a  sudden  sense  of  color.  Did 
the  vapor  catch  a  prismatic  glister  from 
the  sun's  rays?  And  now  faint,  far, 
like  the  ethereal  tones  of  an  elfin  horn, 
a  mellow  vibration  sounded  on  the  air. 
Hardly  louder  it  was  than  the  boom 
ing  of  a  bee  in  the  heart  of  a  flower, 
scarcely  more  definite  than  the  melody 
16 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

one  hears  in  a  dream,  which  one  can 
remember,  yet  cannot  recognize  or 
sing  again;  nevertheless  his  heart 
bounded  at  the  vague  and  vagrant 
strain,  and  he  knew  the  fluttering  pris 
matic  bits  of  color  to  be  the  guidons  of 
a  squadron  of  cavalry.  His  heart  kept 
pace  with  the  hoofbeats  of  the  horses. 
The  lessening  distance  magnified  them 
to  his  vision  till  he  could  discern  now 
a  bright  glint  of  steely  light  as  the  sun 
struck  on  the  burnished  arms  of  the 
riders,  and  could  distinguish  the  tints 
of  the  steeds — gray,  blood-bay,  black 
and  roan-red;  he  could  soon  hear, 
too,  the  jingle  of  the  spurs,  the  clank 
of  sabers  and  carbines,  and  now  and 
again  the  voices  of  the  men,  bluff, 
merry,  hearty,  as  they  rode  at  their 
ease.  He  would  not  lose  sight  of  them 
till  they  had  paused  to  pitch  their  camp 
at  the  foot  of  a  great  spur  of  the 
mountain  opposite.  There  was  a 
17 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

famous    spring    of    clear,    cold    water 
there,  he  remembered. 

The  great  spread  of  mountain 
ranges  had  grown  purple  in  the  sunset, 
with  the  green  cup-like  coves  between 
filled  to  the  brim  with  the  red  vintage 
of  the  afternoon  light,  still  limpid, 
translucent,  with  no  suggestion  of  the 
dregs  of  shadow  or  sediment  of  dark 
ness  in  this  radiant  nectar.  Nor  was 
there  token  of  coming  night  in  the 
sky — all  amber  and  pearl — the  fairest 
hour  of  the  day.  No  premonition  of 
approaching  sorrow  or  defeat,  of  death 
or  rue,  was  in  the  gay  bivouac  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain.  The  very  horses 
picketed  along  the  bank  of  the  stream 
whickered  aloud  in  obvious  content 
with  their  journey's  end,  their  supper, 
their  drink,  and  their  bed ;  the  sound  of 
song  and  jollity,  the  halloo,  the  loud, 
cheery  talk  of  the  troopers,  rose  as 
lightly  on  the  air  as  the  long  streamers 
18 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

of  undulating  blazes  from  the  camp- 
fires  and  the  curling  tendrils  of  the 
ascending  smoke.  More  distant  groups 
betokened  the  precaution  of  videttes  at 
an  outpost.  A  sentinel  near  the  road, 
for  the  camp  guard  was  posted  be 
times,  was  the  only  silent  and  grave 
man  in  the  gay  company,  it  seemed 
to  Hilary,  as  he  watched  the  gallant, 
soldierly  figure  with  his  martial  tread 
marching  to  and  fro  in  this  solitary 
place,  as  if  for  all  the  world  to  see. 
For  Hilary  had  made  his  way  down  the 
mountain  and  was  now  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  camp,  the  goal  of  all  his  military 
aspirations. 

He  had  come  so  near  that  a 
sudden  voice  rang  out  on  the  even 
ing  air,  and  he  paused  as  the  sentry 
challenged  his  approach.  The  rocky 
river  bank  vibrated  with  the  echo 
of  the  soldier's  imperative  tones. 

Hilary  remembered  that  moment 
19 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

always.  It  meant  so  much  to  him. 
Every  detail  of  the  scene  was  painted 
on  his  memory  years  and  years  after 
ward  as  if  but  yesterday  it  was  aglow — 
the  evening  air  that  was  so  still,  so  filled 
with  mellow,  illuminated  color,  so  im 
bued  with  peace  and  fragrance  and 
soft  content,  such  as  one  could  imag 
ine  may  pervade  the  realms  of  Para 
dise,  was  yet  the  vehicle  for  the  limning 
of  this  warlike  picture.  The  great 
purple  mountains  loomed  high  around ; 
through  the  green  valley  now  crept  a 
dun-tinted  shadow  more  like  a  deep 
ening  of  the  rich  verdant  color  of  the 
foliage  than  a  visible  transition  toward 
the  glooms  of  the  night;  the  stream 
was  steel-gray  and  full  of  the  white 
flickers  of  foam ;  further  up  the  water 
reflected  a  flare  of  camp-fires,  broadly 
aglow,  with  great  sprangles  of  fluctuat 
ing  flame  and  smoke  setting  the  blue 
dusk  a-quiverwith  alternations  of  light 

20 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

and  shade ;  there  were  the  dim  rows  of 
horses,  some  still  sturdily  champing 
their  provender,  others  dully  drows 
ing,  and  one  nearer  at  hand,  a  noble 
charger,  standing  with  uplifted  neck 
and  thin,  expanded  nostrils  and  full 
lustrous  eyes,  gazing  over  the  winding 
way,  the  vacant  road  by  which  they 
had  come.  Beyond  were  the  figures 
of  the  soldiers ;  a  few,  who  had  already 
finished  their  supper,  were  rolled  in 
their  blankets  with  their  feet  to  the  fire 
in  a  circle  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel  to 
the  hub.  There,  pillowed  on  their 
saddles,  would  they  sleep  all  night 
under  the  pulsating  white  stars,  for 
these  swift  raids  were  unencumbered 
with  baggage,  and  the  pitching  of  a 
tent  meant  a  longer  stay  than  the 
bivouac  of  a  single  night.  Others  were 
still  at  their  supper,  broiling  rashers  of 
bacon  on  the  coals,  or  toasting  a  bird 
or  chicken,  split  and  poised  on  a 

21 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

pointed  cedar  stick  before  the  flames. 
Socially  disposed  groups  were  laughing 
and  talking  beside  the  flaring  brands, 
the  firelight  gleaming  in  their  eyes, 
half  shaded  by  the  wide,  drooping 
brims  of  their  broad  hats,  and  flashing 
on  their  white  teeth  as  they  rehearsed 
the  incidents  of  the  day  or  made  merry 
with  old  scores.  Now  and  then  a  stave 
of  song  would  rise  sonorously  into  the 
air  as  a  big  bass  voice  trolled  out  a 
popular  melody — it  was  the  first  time 
Hilary  had  ever  heard  the  sentimental, 
melancholy  measures  of  "The  Sun's 
Low  Down  the  Sky,  Lorena."  Some 
times,  by  way  of  symphony,  a  tentative 
staccato  variation  of  the  theme  would 
issue  from  the  strings  of  a  violin,  bor 
rowed  from  a  neighboring  dwelling, 
which  a  young  trooper,  seated  leaning 
against  the  bole  of  a  great  tree,  was 
playing  with  a  deft,  assured  touch. 
Hilary  often  saw  such  scenes  after- 

22 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

ward,  but  not  even  the  reality  was  ever 
so  vivid  as  the  recollection  of  this  fire- 
lit  perspective  glimmering  behind  the 
figure  of  the  guard. 

The  two  gazed  at  each  other  in  the 
brief  space  of  a  second — the  boy  eager 
and  expectant,  the  soldier's  eyes  dark, 
steady,  challenging,  under  the  broad, 
drooping  brim  of  his  soft  hat.  He 
was  young,  but  he  had  a  short-pointed 
dark  beard,  and  a  mustache,  and  al 
though  thin  and  lightly  built,  he  was 
sinewy  and  alert,  and  in  his  long, 
spurred  boots  and  gray  uniform  he 
looked  sufficiently  formidable  with  his 
carbine  in  his  hand. 

"Who  comes  there?"  he  sternly  de 
manded. 

"A  friend,"  quavered  Hilary,  and 
he  could  have  utterly  repudiated  him 
self  that  his  voice  should  show  this 
tremor  of  excitement  since  it  might 
seem  to  be  that  of  fear  in  the  estima- 
23 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

tion  of  this  man,  who  defied  dangers 
and  knew  no  faltering,  and  had  fought 
to  the  last  moment  on  the  losing  side 
on  many  a  stricken  field,  and  was  con 
tent  to  believe  that  duty  and  courage 
were  as  valid  a  guerdon  in  themselves 
as  fickle  victory,  which  perches  as  a 
bird  might  on  the  standard  of  chance. 

"Advance,  friend,  and  give  the 
countersign,"  said  the  sentry. 

It  seemed  to  Hilary  at  the  moment 
that  it  was  some  strange  aberration  of 
all  the  probabilities  that  he  should  not 
know  this  mystic  word,  this  potent 
phrase,  which  should  grant  admission 
to  the  life  of  the  camp  that  already 
seemed  to  him  his  native  sphere.  He 
advanced  a  step  nearer,  and  while  the 
sentinel  bent  his  brow  more  intently 
upon  him  and  looked  firmly  and  nega 
tively  expectant,  he  gave  in  lieu  of  the 
watchword  a  full  detail  of  his  errand, 
— that  he  wished  to  be  a  soldier  and 
24 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

fight  for  his  country,  and  especially 
enlist  with  this  squadron,  albeit  he  did 
not  know  a  single  man  of  the  com 
mand,  nor  even  the  leader's  rank  or 
name. 

Hilary  could  not  altogether  account 
for  a  sudden  change  in  the  sentinel's 
face  and  manner.  He  had  been  very 
sure  that  he  was  about  to  be  denied 
all  admission  according  to  the  strict 
orders  to  permit  no  stranger  within  the 
lines  of  the  encampment.  The  soldier 
stared  at  the  boy  a  moment  longer, 
then  called  lustily  aloud  for  the  cor 
poral  of  the  guard.  For  these  were  the 
days  of  the  close  conscription,  when 
it  was  popularly  said  that  the  army 
robbed  both  the  cradle  and  the  grave 
for  its  recruits,  so  young  and  so  old 
were  the  men  accounted  liable  for  mili 
tary  duty.  The  sentinel  could  but 
discern  at  a  glance  that  Hilary  was 
younger  even  than  the  limit  for  these 
25 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

later  conscriptions,  and  that  only  as 
a  voluntary  sacrifice  to  patriotism  were 
his  services  attainable.  The  corporal  of 
the  guard  came  forthwith — tall,  heavy, 
broad-visaged,  downright  in  manner, 
and  of  a  blunt  style  of  speech.  But  on 
his  face,  too,  the  expression  of  formid 
able  negation  gave  way  at  once  to  a 
brisk  alacrity  of  welcome,  and  he  im 
mediately  conducted  Hilary  to  another 
officer,  who  brought  him  to  a  little 
knoll  where  the  captain  commanding 
the  squadron  was  seated  by  a  brisk 
fire,  half  reclining  on  his  saddle  thrown 
on  the  ground.  He  was  beguiling  his 
leisure,  and  perhaps  reinforcing  a  cer 
tain  down-hearted  tendency  to  nostal 
gia,  by  reading  the  latest  letters  he  had 
from  home — letters  a  matter  of  six 
months  old  now,  and  already  read  into 
tatters,  but  so  illuminated  between  the 
lines  with  familiar  pictures  and  treasured 
household  memories  that  they  were 
26 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

still  replete  with  an  interest  that  would 
last  longer  than  the  paper.  Two  or 
three  other  officers  were  playing  cards 
by  the  light  of  the  fire,  and  one,  elderly 
and  grave,  was  reading  a  book  through 
spectacles  of  sedate  aspect. 

The  measure  of  Hilary's  satisfaction 
was  full  to  the  brim.  Captain  Baker, 
as  he  informed  his  mother  when  a  lit 
tle  later  he  burst  into  the  home-circle 
wild  with  delight  in  his  adventure  and 
his  news,  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to 
Captain  Bertley.  And  rejoiced  was  he 
to  be  going  at  last  and  going  with 
this  officer.  Hilary  declared  again  and 
again  that  he  wouldn't  be  willing  to 
fight  in  any  other  command.  He  was 
going  at  last,  and  going  with  the  only 
captain  in  all  the  world  for  him — the 
first  and  foremost  of  men!  And  yet 
only  this  morning  he  had  not  known 
that  this  paragon  existed. 

He  was  so  a-quiver  with  excitement 
27 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

and  joy  and  expectation  and  pride  that 
his  mother,  pale  and  tremulous  as  she 
made  up  his  little  bundle  of  long- 
delayed  clothes,  was  a  trifle  surprised 
to  hear  him  protest  that  he  could  not 
leave  without  bidding  farewell  to  the 
Noakes  family,  who  lived  at  the  Notch 
in  the  mountain,  and  especially  his  old 
crony,  Delia;  yet  Captain  Bertley's 
trumpets  would  sound  "  boots  and  sad 
dles"  at  the  earliest  glint  of  dawn. 
Delia  was  near  his  own  age,  and  he 
had  always  magnanimously  pitied  her 
for  not  being  a  boy.  Formerly  she 
had  meekly  acquiesced  in  her  inferior 
ity,  mental  and  physical,  especially  in 
the  matter  of  running,  although  she 
made  pretty  fair  speed,  and  in  throw 
ing  stones,  which  she  never  could  be 
taught  to  do  with  accurate  aim.  But 
of  late  years  she  had  not  seemed  to 
"  sense"  this  inferiority,  so  to  speak, 
and  once  in  reference  to  the  war  she 
28 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

had  declared  that  she  was  glad  to  be  a 
girl,  and  thus  debarred  from  fighting, 
"fur  killing  folks,  no  matter  fur  whut 
or  how,  always  seemed  to  be  sinful!" 
When  argued  with  on  this  basis  she 
fell  back  on  the  broad  and  uncontro- 
vertible  proposition  that  ''anyhow 
bloodshed  war  powerful  onpleasant." 
To  see  these  friends  once  again 
Hilary  had  no  time  to  waste.  As  he 
made  his  way  along  the  sandy  road 
with  the  stars  palpitating  whitely  in 
the  sky  above  the  heavy  forest,  which 
rose  so  high  on  either  hand  as  to  seem 
almost  to  touch  them,  this  deep,  nar 
row  passage  looked  when  the  perspec 
tive  held  a  straight  line  to  rising  ground, 
ending  in  the  sidereal  coruscations,  like 
the  veritable  way  to  the  stars,  sought 
by  every  ambitious  wight  since  the 
days  of  the  Caesars.  Hilary  had  never 
heard  an  allusion  to  that  royal  road, 
but  as  he  walked  along  with  a  buoyant, 
29 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

steady  step,  his  hat  in  his  hand  that 
the  breeze  might  cool  his  hot  brow  and 
blow  backward  his  long  masses  of  fair 
hair,  he  followed  indeed  an  upward 
path  in  the  sentiments  that  quickened 
his  pulses,  for  he  was  resolved  upon 
duty  and  thinking  high  thoughts  that 
should  materialize  in  fine  deeds.  He 
was  to  do  and  dare!  He  would  be 
useful  and  faithful  and  brave — brave! 
He  had  a  reverence  for  the  quality  of 
courage — not  for  the  sake  of  its  emu 
lous  display,  but  for  the  spirit  of  all 
nobly  valiant  deeds.  He  had  rejoiced 
in  the  very  expression  of  the  captain's 
eyes — so  true  and  tried !  He,  too, 
would  meet  the  coming  years  fairly. 
The  raw  recruit  could  see  his  way  to  the 
stars  at  the  end  of  that  mountain  vista. 
But  it  seemed  a  poor  preparation  for 
all  this  when  he  awoke  the  inmates  of 
the  Noakes  cabin,  for  it  was  past  mid 
night,  with  the  news  that  he  had  " jined 
30 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

the  cavalry' '  and  was  to  march  at  peep 
of  dawn  with  Bertley's  squadron.  It 
is  true  that  the  elders  crowded  around 
him  half  dressed  only,  so  hastily  had 
they  been  roused,  and  expressed  sur 
prise,  congratulations,  and  regrets  in 
one  inconsistent  breath,  and  old  Mrs. 
Dite,  Delia's  grandmother,  bestowed 
on  him  a  woolen  comforter  which  she 
had  knitted  for  him,  and  for  which, 
improvidently,  it  being  now  near  sum 
mer,  he  cared  less  than  for  the  turmoil 
of  excitement  and  interest  they  had 
manifested  in  his  preferment,  for  he 
felt  every  inch  a  man  and  a  soldier, 
and  they  respectfully  seemed  to  defer 
to  his  new  pretensions.  Delia,  how 
ever,  the  most  unaccountable  of  girls — 
and  girls  are  always  unaccountable — 
put  her  arm  over  her  eyes  as  she  stood 
beside  the  mantelpiece,  beneath  which 
the  embers  had  been  stirred  into  a 
blaze  for  light,  and  turned  her  face  to 
3' 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

the  wall  and  burst  into  tears.  She 
wept  with  so  much  vehemence  that  her 
long  plait  of  black  hair  hanging  down 
her  back  swayed  from  side  to  side  of 
her  shoulders  as  she  shook  her  head  to 
and  fro  in  the  extremity  of  her  woe. 
When  the  elders  remonstrated  with  her, 
and  declared  this  was  no  occasion  for 
sorrow,  she  only  lifted  her  tear-stained 
face  for  a  moment  to  say  in  justifica 
tion  that  she  believed  that  bullets  were 
too  small  to  be  dodged  with  any  suc 
cess  when  they  were  flying  round  pro 
miscuously.  And  in  the  midst  of  the 
volley  of  laughter  which  this  evoked 
from  the  old  people,  Hilary's  voice 
rang  out  indignantly,  "An'  I  ain't  no 
hand  ter  dodge  bullets,  nuther." 

"That's  jes'  what  I  am  a-crying 
about,"  replied  Delia,  to  the  mischiev 
ous  delight  of  the  elders. 

Thus  the  farewell  to  his  old  friends 
was  not  very  exhilarating  to  Hilary. 
32 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

Delia  did  not  even  at  the  last  unveil 
her  face  or  change  her  attitude  against 
the  wall.  To  shake  hands  he  was 
obliged  to  pull  her  hand  from  her  eyes 
by  way  of  over  her  head,  and  in  this 
maneuver  he  was  moved  to  notice  how 
much  taller  he  had  lately  grown.  Her 
hand  was  very  limp  and  cold  and  wet 
with  her  tears — so  wet  that  he  had  to 
wipe  these  tears  from  his  own  hand  on 
the  brim  of  his  hat  on  his  homeward 
way. 

And  when,  as  in  sudden  enchant 
ment,  darkness  became  light  and  night 
developed  into  dawn,  when  color  re 
newed  the  landscape,  and  the  dull 
sky  grew  red  as  if  flushed  with  sud 
den  triumph,  and  the  black  mountains 
turned  royally  purple  in  the  distance 
and  tenderly  green  nearer  at  hand, 
and  the  waters  of  the  river  leaped 
and  flashed  like  a  live  thing,  as  with 
an  actual  joy  in  existence,  and  the 
33 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

great  fiery  sun,  full  of  vital  yellow 
flame,  flared  up  over  the  eastern  hor 
izon,  the  squadron,  with  jingling  spurs 
and  clanking  sabers,  with  carbines 
and  canteens  rattling,  with  the  trumpet 
now  and  again  sending  forth  those 
elated,  joyous  martial  strains,  so  sweet 
and  yet  so  proud,  rode  forth  into  a  new 
day,  and  Hilary  Knox,  among  the 
troopers  and  gallantly  mounted,  rode 
forth  into  a  new  life. 

The  bivouac  fires  glowed  for  a  while, 
then  fell  to  smoldering  and  died, 
leaving  but  a  gray  ash  to  tell  of  their 
presence  here.  Day  by  day  the  eagles 
in  the  great  bare  pine  tree  on  the  high 
rock  at  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
looked  for  Hilary  to  visit  his  point  of 
observation  and  stir  their  hearts  with 
fear  and  wrath.  Time  and  again  the 
male  bird  might  have  been  seen  to  circle 
about  at  the  usual  hour  for  the  boy's 
coming ;  first  with  apprehension  lest  his 
34 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

absence  was  too  good  to  be  true,  then, 
with  the  courage  of  immunity  undis 
ciplined  by  fear,  screaming  and  flounc 
ing  as  if  to  challenge  this  apparition 
of  quondam  terror.  Now  and  then  the 
pair  seemed  to  argue  and  collogue  to 
gether  upon  the  mystery  of  his  non- 
appearance,  and  to  chuffily  compare 
notes,  and  seek  to  classify  their  im 
pressions  of  this  singular  specimen  of 
the  animal  kingdom.  Perhaps,  tabu 
lated,  their  conclusions  might  stand 
thus:  Genus,  boy;  habits,  noisy ;  diet, 
omnivorous;  element,  mischief;  uses, 
undiscovered  and  undiscoverable. 

Long,  long  after  the  eagles  had  for 
gotten  the  intruder,  after  their  brood, 
the  two  ill-feathered  nestlings,  had 
taken  strongly  to  wing,  after  their  nest, 
a  mass  of  loose,  but  well  collocated 
sticks  and  grass,  had  given  way  to  the 
beat  of  the  rain  and  the  blasts  of  the 
wind,  did  Hilary's  mother  wearily  gaze 
35 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

from  the  heights  where  the  mountain 
cabin  was  perched  down  upon  the 
curves  of  the  valley  road  along  which 
she  had  seen  him  riding  away  with  that 
glittering  train,  and  sigh  and  let  her 
knitting  fall  from  her  nerveless  hands, 
and  wonder  what  would  the  manner  of 
his  home-coming  be,  or  whether  the 
future  held  at  all  a  home-coming  for 
him. 

And  her  many  sighs  kept  her  heart 
sick  and  turned  her  hair  very  white. 


CHAPTER  II 

It  was  a  wonderful  period  of  mental 
development  for  this  wild  young  crea 
ture  of  the  woods,  when  Hilary  received 
in  his  sudden  transition  to  the  "valley 
kentry"  his  first  adequate  impressions 
of  civilization.  He  learned  that  the 
world  is  wide ;  he  beheld  the  triumphs 
of  military  science;  he  acquiesced  in 
the  fixed  distinctions  of  rank,  since  he 
must  needs  concede  the  finer  grades 
of  capacity.  But  courage,  the  inher 
ent,  inimitable  endowment,  he  recog 
nized  as  the  soul  of  heroism,  and  in 
all  the  arrogance  of  elation  he  became 
conscious  that  he  possessed  it.  This 
it  was  that  opened  his  stolid  mind  to 
the  allurements  of  ambition.  He 
rejoiced  in  an  aspiration. 
37 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

He  was  brave.  That  was  his  iden 
tity — his  essential  vitality!  Was  he 
ignorant,  poor,  the  butt  of  the  camp- 
fire  jokes,  because  of  his  simplicity  in 
the  wide  world's  ways,  slothful,  slow, 
wild,  and  turbulent?  He  took  heed  of 
none  of  this!  He  was  the  bravest  of 
the  brave — and  all  the  command  knew 
it! 

With  an  exultant  heart  he  realized 
that  Captain  Bertley  was  aware  of  the 
fact,  and  often  took  account  of  it  in 
laying  his  plans.  The  regiment  of 
which  this  squadron  was  a  part  be 
longed  to  one  of  those  brigades  of  light 
cavalry  whose  utility  was  chiefly  in 
quick  movements,  in  harassing  an 
enemy's  march,  in  following  up  and 
hanging  on  his  retreat,  and  sometimes 
in  making  swift  forced  marches,  ap 
pearing  unexpectedly  in  distant  local 
ities  far  from  the  main  body  and 
adding  the  element  of  surprise  to  a 
38 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

sudden  and  furious  onslaught.  Often 
Hilary  was  among  a  few  picked  men 
sent  out  to  reconnoiter,  or  as  the 
rear-guard  when  the  little  band  was 
retreating  before  a  superior  force  and 
it  was  necessary  to  fight  and  flee 
alternately.  It  was  now  and  again 
in  these  skirmishes  that  he  had  the 
opportunity  to  show  his  pluck  and 
his  strength  and  his  cool  head  and  his 
ready  hand.  More  than  once  he  had 
been  the  bearer  of  dispatches  of  great 
importance  sent  by  him  alone,  disguised 
in  citizen's  dress  and  his  destination  a 
long  way  off.  Thus  did  the  captain 
commanding  the  squadron  demonstrate 
his  confidence  in  the  boy's  fidelity  and 
courage  and  resource.  For  his  ready 
wit  in  an  emergency  was  hardly  less 
than  his  courage. 

"What   did  you  do,  then,  with  the 
Colonel's    letter    that    you     were    to 
deliver     at     brigade     head-quarters?" 
39 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

asked  the  Captain  in  much  agitation, 
but  with  a  voice  like  thunder  and  a 
flashing  eye,  when  one  day  Hilary  re 
turned  from  a  fruitless  expedition, 
with  his  finger  in  his  mouth,  so  to 
speak,  and  a  tale  of  having  encoun 
tered  Federal  scouts,  who  had  stopped 
and  questioned  him,  and  finally  after 
suspiciously  searching  him,  had  turned 
him  loose,  believing  him  nothing  more 
than  he  seemed — a  peaceful,  ignorant 
country  boy. 

Hilary  glanced  ruefully  down  at  the 
hat  that  he  swung  in  his  hand,  then 
with  anxious  deprecation  at  the  Cap 
tain,  whose  face  as  he  stood  beside 
his  horse,  ready  to  mount,  had  flushed 
deeply  red,  either  because  of  the  reflec 
tion  of  the  sunset  clouds  massed  in  the 
west  or  because  of  the  recollection 
that  he  had  earnestly  recommended 
the  boy  to  his  superior  officer,  for  this 
dangerous  mission,  and  thus  felt  pecul- 
4o 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

iarly  responsible;  for  the  letter  had 
contained  details  relating  to  the  Colo 
nel's  orders  from  brigade  headquar 
ters,  his  numbers,  and  other  mat 
ters,  the  knowledge  of  which  in  the 
enemy's  hands  might  precipitate  his 
capture,  together  with  all  the  detach 
ment. 

"It's  gone,  sir,"  mumbled  Hilary, 
the  picture  of  despair ;  ' '  I  never  knowed 
what  ter  do,  so — " 

"So  you  let  them  have  that  letter — 
when  I  had  told  you  how  important  it 
was!" 

"I  don't  see  how  it  could  have  been 
helped,  since  the  boy  was  searched," 
said  Captain  Blake,  the  junior  captain 
of  the  squadron,  who  was  standing  by. 
"I  am  glad  he  came  back  to  let  us 
know." 

"That's  why  I  done  what  I  done," 
eagerly  explained  Hilary.  "I — I — eat 
it." 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

"All  of  it?"  cried  Captain  Bertley, 
with  a  flash  of  relief. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  swallowed  it  all  boda- 
ciously — just  ez  soon  ez  I  seen  'em 
a-kemin'  dustin'  along  the  road." 

"Well  done,  Baby  Bunting!"  cried 
the  senior  officer,  for  thus  was  Hilary 
distinguished  among  the  troopers  on 
account  of  his  tender  years. 

The  gruff  Captain  Blake  laughed 
delightedly,  a  hoarse,  discordant 
demonstration,  much  like  the  chuck 
ling  of  a  rusty  old  crow.  He  seemed 
to  think  it  a  good  joke,  and  Hilary 
knew  that  he,  too,  was  vastly  relieved 
to  have  saved  from  the  enemy  such 
important  information. 

"Pretty  bitter  pill,  eh?" 

"Naw,  sir,"  said  Hilary,  his  eyes 
twinkling  as  he  swung  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  for  he  could  never  be  truly  mili 
tary  out  of  his  uniform;  "it  war  like 
eatin'  a  yard  medjure  of  mustard  plas- 
42 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

ter,  bein'  stiff  ter  swaller  an'  somehow 
goin'  agin  the  grain." 

The  senior  captain  gravely  com 
mended  his  presence  of  mind,  and  said 
he  would  remember  this  and  his  many 
other  good  services.  As  he  dismissed 
the  young  trooper  and  still  standing, 
holding  a  sheet  of  paper  against  his 
saddle,  began  to  write  a  report  of  the 
fate  of  the  letter  that  had  so  threatened 
the  capture  of  the  whole  command, 
Hilary  overheard  Captain  Blake  say  in 
his  bluff,  extravagant  way,  "That  boy 
ought  to  be  promoted." 

"What?"  said  Captain  Bertley, 
glancing  back  over  his  shoulder  with 
the  pencil  in  his  hand.  "Baby  Bunting 
with  a  command!" 

Despite  the  ridicule  of  the  idea 
Hilary's  heart  swelled  within  him  as 
he  strolled  away,  for  he  cared  only  to 
deserve  the  promotion  and  the  confi 
dence  shown  him,  even  if  on  account 
43 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

of  his  extreme  youth  and  presumable 
irresponsibility  he  was  debarred  from 
receiving  it. 

He  could  not  have  said  why  he  was 
not  resentful  of  being  called  "Baby 
Bunting"  by  Captain  Bertley.  He 
felt  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  courteous 
condescension  that  the  officer  should 
comment  on  the  inadequacy  of  his  age 
and  the  discrepancy  between  his  limited 
powers  and  his  valuable  deeds — almost 
as  a  jesting  token  of  affection,  kindly 
meant  and  kindly  received.  But  the 
name  fell  upon  his  ear  often  with  a  far 
different  significance;  the  camp  cry 
"Bye,  oh,  Baby  Bunting,"  was  in 
tended  to  goad  him  to  such  a  degree  of 
anger  as  should  make  him  the  sport  of 
the  groups  around  the  bivouac  fire. 
The  chief  instigator  of  this  effort  was 
a  big,  brutal  cavalryman,  by  name 
Jack  Bixby.  He  had  a  long,  red  beard ; 
long,  reddish  hair;  small,  twinkling, 
44 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

dark  eyes,  and  a  powerfully  built, 
sinewy,  well-compacted  figure.  He 
was  superficially  considered  jolly  and 
genial,  for  few  of  his  careless  compan 
ions  were  observant  enough  of  moral 
phenomena  or  sufficiently  students  of 
human  nature  to  take  note  of  the  fact 
that  there  was  always  a  spice  of  ill- 
humor  in  his  mirth.  Malice  or  jealousy 
or  grudging  or  a  mean  spirit  of  deri 
sion  pervaded  his  merriment.  He 
found  great  joy  in  ridiculing  a  raw 
country  boy,  whose  lack  of  knowledge 
of  the  world's  ways  laid  him  liable 
to  many  mistakes  and  misconceptions, 
and  at  first  Hilary's  credulity  in  the 
big  lies  told  him  by  Jack  Bixby  and 
his  simplicity  in  acting  upon  them  ex 
posed  him  to  the  laughter  of  the 
whole  troop.  This  was  checked  in 
one  instance,  however;  having  been 
instructed  that  it  was  an  accepted  detail 
of  the  observances  of  a  soldier,  Hilary 
45 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

was  induced  to  advance  with  great 
ceremony  one  day,  and  duly  saluting 
ask  Captain  Bertley  how  he  found  his 
health.  The  officer  was  standing  on 
ground  somewhat  elevated  above  the 
site  of  the  camp,  in  full  gray  uniform,  a 
field-glass  in  his  hand,  his  splendid 
charger  at  his  shoulder,  the  reins 
thrown  over  his  arm.  The  humble 
"Baby  Bunting"  approaching  this  au 
gust  military  object,  and  presuming  to 
ask  after  the  commanding  officer's 
health,  was  in  full  view  of  a  hundred 
or  more  startled  and  amazed  veterans. 
But  Captain  Bertley  had  seen  and 
known  much  of  this  world  and  its 
ways.  He  instantly  recognized  the  in 
cident  as  a  bit  of  malicious  play  upon 
the  simplicity  of  the  new  recruit,  and 
he  took  due  note,  too,  of  his  own  dig 
nity.  He  realized  how  to  balk  the 
one  and  to  support  the  other.  He 
accepted  the  unusual  and  absurd  dem- 
46 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

onstration  concerning  his  health  by  say 
ing  simply  that  he  was  quite  well,  and 
then  he  kept  the  boy  standing  in  con 
versation  as  to  the  state  of  a  certain 
ford  some  distance  up  the  river,  with 
which  Hilary  was  acquainted,  having 
been  of  a  scouting  party  which  had 
been  sent  in  that  direction  the  previous 
day.  The  staring  military  spectators, 
their  attention  previously  bespoken  by 
Bixby,  saw  naught  especial  in  the 
interview,  the  boy  apparently  having 
been  summoned  thither  by  order  of 
the  officer  to  make  a  report  or  give  in 
formation,  and  thus  the  joke,  atten 
uated  to  microscopic  proportions, 
failed  of  effect.  It  had,  however,  very 
sufficient  efficacy  in  recoil.  Before 
dismissing  Hilary  the  Captain  asked 
how  he  had  chanced  to  accost  him  in 
the  manner  with  which  he  had  ap 
proached  him,  and  the  boy  in  guile 
lessly  detailing  the  circumstance,  before 
47 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

he  was  admonished  as  to  his  cred 
ulous  folly,  betrayed  Bixby  as  the 
perpetrator  of  the  pleasantry  at  his 
expense,  and  what  was  far  more  seri 
ous  at  the  expense  of  the  officer.  Jack 
Bixby,  dull  enough,  as  malicious  peo 
ple  often  are,  or  they  would  not  other 
wise  let  their  malice  appear — for  they 
are  not  frank — did  not  see  it  in  that 
light  until  he  suddenly  found  himself 
under  arrest  and  then  required  to 
mount  the  ''wooden  horse"  for  several 
weary  hours. 

" You'll  be  hung  up  by  the  thumbs 
next  time,  my  rooster,"  said  the  ser 
geant,  as  he  carried  the  sentence  into 
effect.  "The  Cap'n  ain't  so  mighty 
partial  to  your  record,  no  hows.  He 
asked  me  if  you  hadn't  served  with 
Whingan's  rangers,  ez  be  no  better' n 
bushwhackers,  an'  ye  know  he  is  mighty 
partic'lar  'bout  keepin'  up  the  tone  an* 
spirit  o'  the  men." 
48 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

Hilary,  contradictorily  enough,  lost 
all  sense  of  injury  and  shame  in  sorrow 
that  he  should  have  divulged  Bixby's 
agency  in  the  matter  and  brought  this 
disaster  upon  the  trooper,  who  perhaps 
had  only  intended  a  little  diversion, 
and  had  neither  the  good  taste  nor  the 
good  sense  to  perceive  its  offensiveness 
to  the  officer.  Bixby  had  served  in 
a  band  generally  reputed  bushwhack 
ers,  who  did  little  more  than  plunder 
both  sides,  and  in  which  discipline  was 
necessarily  slight.  And  thus  after 
this  episode  they  were  better  friends 
than  before.  True,  in  the  days  of 
dearth,  for  these  men  must  needs 
starve  as  well  as  fight,  when  only 
rations  of  corn  were  served  out,  which 
the  soldiers  parched  and  ate  by  the 
fire,  and  which  were  so  scanty  that  a 
strict  watch  was  kept  to  prevent  cer 
tain  of  them  from  robbing  their  own 
horses,  on  the  condition  and  speed  of 
49 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

which  their  very  lives  depended, 
Hilary,  as  in  honor  bound,  being  de 
tailed  for  this  duty,  reported  his 
greedy  comrade,  but  in  view  of  the 
half-famished  condition  of  the  troops 
Bixby's  punishment  was  light,  and  the 
incident  did  not  break  off  their  out 
ward  semblance  of  friendship,  although 
one  may  be  sure  Bixby  kept  account 
of  it. 

So  the  years  went — those  wild  years 
of  hard  riding  and  hard  fighting;  sleep 
ing  on  the  ground  under  the  open  skies 
whether  cloudy  or  clear — it  was  months 
after  it  was  all  over  before  Hilary 
could  accustom  himself  to  sleep  in  a 
bed;  roused  by  the  note  of  the 
trumpet,  sometimes  while  the  stars 
were  yet  white  in  the  dark  heavens, 
with  no  token  of  dawn  save  a  great 
translucent,  tremulous  planet  herald 
ing  the  morn,  and  that  wild,  sweet, 
exultant  strain  of  reveille,  so  romantic, 
50 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

so  stirring,  that  it  might  seem  as  if  it 
had  floated  down,  proclaiming  the 
day,  from  that  splendid  vanguard  of  the 
sun.  So  they  went — those  wild  years, 
all  at  once  over. 

The  end  came  on  a  hard-contested 
field,  albeit  only  a  thousand  or  so 
were  engaged  on  either  side.  The 
squadron,  in  one  of  those  wild  reck 
less  assaults  of  cavalry  against  artillery, 
for  which  the  Confederate  horse  were 
famous  in  this  campaign,  had  gone  to 
the  attack  straight  up  a  hill,  while  the 
muzzles  of  the  big,  black  guns  sent 
forth  smoke  and  roar,  scarcely  less 
frightful  than  the  bombs  which  were 
bursting  among  the  horses  and  men  rid 
ing  directly  at  the  battery.  It  was  hard 
to  hold  the  horses.  Often  they  swerved 
and  faltered,  and  sought  to  turn  back. 
Each  time  Captain  Bertley,  with  drawn 
sword,  reformed  the  line,  encouraging 
the  men  and  urging  them  to  the  almost 
51 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

impossible  task  anew.  At  it  they  went 
once  more,  in  face  of  shot  and  shell. 
Now  and  again  Hilary,  riding  in  the 
rear  rank,  with  his  saber  at  "the  raise," 
heard  a  sharp,  singing  sibilance,  which 
he  knew  was  a  minie-ball,  whizzing 
close  to  his  ear,  and  he  realized  that 
infantry  was  there  a  little  to  one  side 
supporting  the  battery.  The  rush,  the 
turmoil,  the  blare  of  the  trumpets 
sounding  "the  charge,"  the  clamor  of 
galloping  hoofs,  of  shouting  men,  the 
roar  of  cannon,  the  swift  panorama  of 
moving  objects  before  the  eye,  the 
ever-quickening  speed,  and  the  tre 
mendous  sensation  of  flying  through 
the  air  like  a  projectile — it  was  all  like 
some  wild  tempest,  some  mad  conflict 
of  the  elements.  And  suddenly  Hilary 
became  aware  that  he  was  flying 
through  the  air  without  any  will  of  his 
own.  The  horse  had  taken  the  bit 
between  his  teeth,  and  maddened  by 
52 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

the  noise,  the  frenzy  of  the  fight,  was 
rushing  on  he  knew  not  whither,  his 
head  stretched  out,  his  eyes  starting, 
straight  up  the  hill  unmindful  of  the 
trumpet  now  sounding  the  recall  and 
the  heavy  pull  of  the  boy  on  the  curb. 
Hilary  was  far  away  in  advance  of  the 
others  when  the  line  wheeled.  A  few 
more  impetuous  bounds  and  plunges, 
and  he  was  carried  in  among  the  Fed 
eral  guns,  mechanically  slashing  at  the 
gunners  with  his  saber,  until  one  of  the 
men,  with  a  well-directed  blow,  knocked 
him  off  his  horse  with  the  long,  heavy 
sponge-staff.  So  it  was  that  Hilary 
was  captured.  He  surrendered  to  the 
man  with  the  sponge-staff,  for  the 
others  were  busily  limbering  up  the 
guns;  they  were  to  take  position  on  a 
new  site — one  less  exposed  to  attack 
and  very  commanding.  They  had 
more  than  they  wanted  in  Hilary. 
He  realized  that  as  he  was  on  his  way 
53 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

to  the  rear  under  guard.  The  engage 
ment  was  practically  at  an  end,  and  the 
successful  Federals  were  keenly  eager 
to  pursue  the  retreating  force  and 
secure  all  the  fruits  of  victory.  To  be 
hampered  with  the  disposition  of  pris 
oners  at  such  a  moment  was  hardly 
wise,  when  an  active  pursuit  might  cut 
off  the  whole  command.  Therefore 
the  few  already  taken,  who  were  more 
or  less  wounded,  were  temporarily 
paroled  in  a  neighboring  hamlet,  and 
Hilary,  the  war  in  effect  concluded 
for  him — for  the  parole  was  a  pledge 
to  remain  within  the  lines  and  report  at 
stated  intervals  to  the  party  granting 
it — found  himself  looking  out  over  a 
broad  white  turnpike  in  a  flat  country, 
down  which  a  cloud  of  dust  was  all 
that  could  be  seen  of  the  body  of  cav 
alry  so  lately  contending  for  every 
inch  of  ground. 

Now  and   again    a  series    of    white 
54 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

puffs  of  smoke  from  amidst  the  hill 
ocks  on  the  west'  told  that  the  battery 
of  the  Federals  was  shelling  the  woods 
which  their  enemy  had  succeeded  in 
gaining,  the  shells  hurtling  high  above 
the  heads  of  their  own  infantry  march 
ing  forward  resolutely,  secure  in  the 
fact  of  being  too  close  for  damage. 
Presently  the  battery  became  silent. 
Their  vanguard  was  getting  within 
range  of  their  own  guns,  and  a  second 
move  was  in  order.  The  boy  watched 
the  flying  artillery  scurrying  across  the 
plain,  as  he  struck  down  a  " dirt-road" 
which  intersected  the  turnpike,  and 
soon  he  noticed  the  puffs  of  white 
smoke  from  another  coign  of  vantage 
and  the  bursting  of  shells  still  further 
away. 

"Them  dogs  barkin'  again!     Waal, 

I'm  glad  ter  be  wide  o'  thar  mark," 

said  a  familiar  voice  at  his  elbow ;  the 

speaker  was  Bixby,  a  paroled  prisoner, 

55 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

too,  having  been  captured  further 
down  the  hill  during  the  general 
retreat. 

Hilary  was  not  ill-pleased  to  see  him 
at  first,  especially  as  something  pres 
ently  happened  which  made  him  soli 
citous  for  the  advice  and  guidance  of 
an  older  head  than  his  own.  By  one 
of  the  vicissitudes  of  war  victory  sud 
denly  deserted  the  winning  side,  and 
presently  here  was  the  erstwhile  suc 
cessful  party  in  full  retreat,  swarming 
over  the  flat  country,  the  battery  scur 
rying  along  the  turnpike  with  two 
of  its  guns  missing,  captured  as  they 
barked  with  their  mouths  wide  open, 
so  to  speak.  The  hurrying  crash  and 
noisy  rout  went  past  like  the  phantas 
magoria  of  a  dream,  and  these  two 
prisoners  were  presently  left  quite  out 
side  the  Federal  lines  by  no  act  or  vo 
lition  of  their  own,  and  yet  apparently 
far  enough  from  Bertley's  squadron, 
56 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

for  the  pursuit  was  not  pressed,  both 
parties  having  had  for  the  nonce 
enough  of  each  other.  The  first  object 
of  the  two  troopers  was  to  procure  food 
of  which  they  stood  sadly  in  need. 
They  set  forth  to  find  the  nearest  farm 
house,  Hilary  on  his  own  horse,  which 
in  the  confusion  had  not  been  taken 
from  him  when  he  was  disarmed,  and 
Bixby  easily  caught  and  mounted  a 
riderless  steed  that  had  been  in  the 
engagement,  but  was  now  cropping 
the  wayside  grass. 

A  thousand  times  that  day  Hilary 
wished,  as  they  went  on  their  journey 
together,  that  he  had  never  seen  this 
man  again.  All  Jack  Bixby 's  methods 
were  false,  and  it  revolted  Hilary,  edu 
cated  to  a  simple  but  strict  code  of 
morals,  to  seem  to  share  in  his  lies  and 
his  dubious  devices  to  avoid  giving  a 
true  account  of  themselves.  In  fact 
their  progress  was  menaced  with  some 
57 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

danger.  Having  little  to  distinguish 
them-  as  soldiers,  for  the  gray  cloth 
uniform  in  many  instances  had  given 
place  to  the  butternut  jeans,  the  habi 
tual  garb  of  the  poorer  classes  of  the 
country,  they  could  be  mistaken  for 
citizens,  peacefully  pursuing  some  rus 
tic  vocation,  and  this  impression  Bixby 
sought  to  impose  on  every  party  who 
questioned  them.  He  feared  to  meet 
the  Federals,  because  of  their  paroles, 
which  showed  them  to  be  prisoners 
and  yet  out  of  the  lines,  and  he 
thought  this  broken  pledge  might  sub 
ject  them  to  the  penalty  of  being 
strung  up  by  the  neck. 

"That  air  tale  'bout  our  bein'  in  the 
lines  an'  the  lines  shrinkin'  till  we  got 
out  o'  'em  ain't  goin'  ter  go  down 
with  no  sech  brash  fellers,"  he  argued 
with  some  reason,  for  the  probabilities 
seemed  against  them. 

And  now  he  dreaded  an  encounter 
58 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

with  Union  men,  non-combatants,  for 
the  same  reason.  He  slipped  off  his 
boot  at  one  time  and  hid  the  paper 
under  the  sole  of  his  foot.  "Efwe- 
uns  war  ter  be  sarched  they  wouldn't 
look  thar,  mos'  likely."  And  finally 
when  they  reached  the  house  of  an 
aged  farmer,  who  with  partisan  cor 
diality  welcomed  and  fed  them,  declar 
ing  that  although  he  was  too  old  to 
fight  he  could  thus  help  on  the  south 
ern  cause,  Bixby  took  advantage  of 
his  host's  short  absence  from  the  din 
ing-room  to  strike  a  match  which  he 
discovered  in  a  candlestick  on  the 
mantel  piece,  for  the  season  was  too 
warm  for  fires,  and  lighting  the  candle 
he  held  the  parole  in  the  flame  till  the 
paper  was  reduced  to  a  cinder;  then 
he  hastily  extinguished  the  candle. 

When  once  more  on  the  road,  how 
ever,  Bixby  regretted  his  decision.   For 
aught  he  knew  they  were  still  within 
59 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

the  Federal  lines.  The  Union  troops 
had  doubtless  been  reinforced,  for  they 
were  making  a  point  of  holding  this 
region  at  all  hazards.  He  was  a  fool 
he  said  to  have  burnt  his  parole — it  was 
his  protection.  If  he  were  taken  now 
by  troops  not  in  the  extreme  activities 
of  resisting  a  spirited  cavalry  attack, 
who  had  time  to  make  his  capture 
good,  and  means  of  transportation 
handy,  he  would  be  sent  off  to  Camp 
Chase  or  some  other  prison,  and  shut 
up  there  till  the  crack  of  doom,  whereas 
his  parole  rendered  him  for  the  time 
practically  free. 

"Why  didn't  you  keep  me  from 
doin'  it,  Hil'ry?" 

"Why,  I  baiged  an'  baiged  an'  be 
sought  ye  'fore  we  went  in  the  house 
ter  do  nothin'  ter  the  paper,"  said 
Hilary,  wearied  and  excited  and  even 
alarmed  by  his  companion's  vacilla 
tions,  so  wild  with  fear  had  Bixby 
60 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

become.  "I  wunk  at  ye  when  the  old 
man's  back  was  turned.  I  even  tried 
ter  snatch  the  paper  whenst  ye  put  yer 
boot-toe  on  the  aidge  of  a  piece  of  it 
on  the  ha'thstone  an'  helt  it  down  till 
it  war  bu'nt." 

"I  war  a  fool,"  said  Bixby,  gloom 
ily.  "I  wish  I  hed  it  hyar  now." 

"I  tole  ye,"  said  Hilary,  for  he 
had  spent  the  day  in  urging  the  fair 
and  open  policy,  let  come  what  might 
of  it,  "I  tole  ye  ez  I  war  a-goin'  ter 
show  my  parole  ter  the  fust  man  ez 
halts  me,  an'  ef  I  be  out'n  the  lines, 
an*  he  won't  believe  my  tale,  let  him 
take  it  out  on  me  howsumdever  the 
law  o'  sech  doin's  'pears.  Nobody 
could  expec'  me  ter  set  an'  starve  on 
that  hillside  till  sech  time  ez  the 
Fed'rals  throw  out  thar  line  agin." 

"I  wisht  I  hed  my  parole  agin," 
said  Bixby,  more  moodily  still. 

Down  the  road  before  them  suddenly 
61 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

they  saw  a  dust,  and  a  steely  glitter — 
not  so  strong  a  reflection,  however,  as 
marching  infantry  throws  out.  A 
squad  of  cavalry  was  approaching  at  a 
steady  pace.  Jack  Bixby's  first  idea 
was  flight;  this  the  condition  of  the 
jaded  horse  rendered  impolitic.  Then 
he  thought  of  concealment — in  vain. 
On  either  hand  the  level,  plowed 
fields  afforded  not  the  slightest  bush  as 
a  shield.  The  only  thicket  in  sight 
was  alongside  the  road  and  now  in  line 
with  the  approaching  party  whom  it 
so  shadowed  that  it  was  impossible  to 
judge  by  uniform  or  accoutrements  to 
which  army  they  belonged. 

"Hil'ry,"  said  Jack  Bixby,  "let's 
stick  ter  the  country-jake  story;  I'll 
say  that  I  be  a  farmer  round  hyar 
somewhar,  an'  pretend  that  you  air  my 
son.  That'll  go  down  with  any  party." 

"I  be  goin'  ter  tell  the  truth  my 
self,  an'  show  my  parole,  whoever  they 
62 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

be;  that's  the  right  thing,"  said  Hil 
ary,  stoutly. 

"But  I  ain't  got  no  parole,"  quav 
ered  Bixby. 

"Tell  the  truth  an'  I'll  bear  ye  out," 
said  Hilary.  "Tell  'em  that  thar  be 
so  many  parties  —  Feds  an'  Confeds 
an'  Union  men  an'  bushwhackers,  an' 
we-uns  got  by  accident  out'n  the  lines 
an'  ye  took  alarm  an*  destroyed  yer 
parole.  I'll  bear  ye  out  an'  take  my 
oath  on  it;  an*  ye  know  the  old  man 
war  remarkin'  on  them  cinders  on  the 
aidge  o'  the  mantel  shelf  an*  ha'th- 
stone  ez  we  left  the  house." 

"Hil'ry,"  said  Bixby,  as  with  a 
sudden  bright  idea — anything  but  the 
truth  seemed  hopeful  to  him — "I'll 
tell  ye.  I'll  take  yer  parole  an'  claim 
it  ez  mine,  an'  pretend  that  ye  air  my 
son — non-combatant,  jes'  a  boy,  ez  ye 
air." 

"But  it's  got  my  name  on  it.  It's 
63 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

a-parolin'  of  me, "  said  Hilary,  "an'  I 
ain't  no  non-combatant." 

"But  I'll  claim  your  name;  I'll  be 
Hil'ry  Knox,  an'  tall  ez  ye  air,  yer 
face  shows  ye  ain't  nuthin'  but  a  boy. 
Nobody  wouldn't  disbelieve  it." 

"I  won't  do  it!  I  won't  put  off  a 
lie  on  'em!  I  hev  fought  an'  fought 
an'  I'll  take  the  consekences  o*  what  I 
done — all  the  consekences  o'  hevin* 
fought.  /  am  Hilary  Knox,  an'  I  be 
plumb  pledged  by  my  word  of  honor. 
But  I'll  bear  ye  out  in  the  fac's,  an' 
thar's  nuthin'  ter  doubt  in  the  fac's — 
they  air  full  reasonable. ' ' 

He  had  taken  the  paper  out  of  his 
ragged  breast-pocket  to  have  it  in 
readiness  to  present  to  the  advance 
guard,  who  had  perceived  them  and 
had  quickened  the  pace  for  the  pur 
pose  of  halting  them.  Perhaps  Bixby 
had  no  intention,  save,  by  sleight-of- 
hand,  to  possess  himself  of  the  paper. 
64 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

Perhaps  he  thought  that  having  it  in 
his  power  the  boy  would  hardly  dare 
to  contradict  the  story  he  had  sketched 
and  the  name  he  intended  to  claim  as 
the  owner  of  the  parole;  if  Hilary 
should  protest  he  could  say  his  son  was 
weak-minded,  an  imbecile,  a  lunatic. 
He  made  a  sudden  lunge  from  the  sad 
dle  and  a  more  sudden  snatch  at  the 
paper.  But  the  boy's  strong  hand  held  it 
fast.  Jack  Bixby  hardly  noted  the  sur 
prise,  the  indignation,  the  reproach  in 
Hilary's  face — almost  an  expression  of 
grief — as  he  turned  it  toward  him. 
With  the  determination  that  had  seized 
him  to  possess  the  paper,  Bixby  struck 
the  boy's  wrist  and  knuckles  a 
series  of  sharp,  brutal  blows  with  the 
back  of  a  strong  bowie-knife,  which 
had  been  concealed  in  his  boot-leg 
at  the  surrender.  They  palsied  the 
clutch  of  the  boy's  left  hand.  But 
as  the  quivering  fingers  opened,  Hilary 
65 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

caught  the  falling  paper  with  his  right 
hand. 

"Let  go,  let  go!"  cried  Jack  Bixby 
in  a  frenzy;  "else  I'll  let  you  hev  the 
blade — there,  then! — take  the  aidge — 
ez  keen  ez  a  razor!" 

The  steel  descended  again  and  again, 
and  as  the  boy  was  half  dragged  out  of 
the  saddle  the  blood  poured  down  upon 
the  parole.  It  would  have  been  hard 
to  say  then  what  name  was  there! 

A  sudden  shout  rang  out  from  down 
the  road.  The  approaching  men  had 
observed  the  altercation,  and  mending 
their  pace,  came  on  at  a  swift  gallop. 

With  not  a  glance  at  them,  Jack 
Bixby  turned  his  horse  short  around 
and  fled  as  fast  as  the  animal  could 
go,  striking  out  of  the  road  and  into 
the  woods  as  soon  as  he  reached  the 
timbered  land. 

Poor  "Baby  Bunting,"  dragged  out 
of  his  saddle,  fell  down  in  the  road 
66 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

beneath  his  horse's  hoofs,  and  all  cov 
ered  with  white  dust  and  red  blood 
there  he  lay  very  still  till  the  cavalry 
men  came  up  and  found  him. 

For  this  was  what  they  called  him — 
"Poor  Baby  Bunting/ "  They  were  a 
small  reconnoitering  party  of  his  own 
comrades,  and  it  was  with  a  hearty 
good  will  that  they  pursued  Jack  Bixby 
who  fled,  as  from  his  enemies,  through 
the  brush.  Perhaps  his  enemies  would 
have  been  gentler  with  him  than  his 
quondam  friends  could  they  only  have 
laid  hands  on  him,  for  they  all  loved 
"Baby  Bunting"  for  his  brave  spirit 
and  his  little  simplicities  and  his  hearty 
good-comradeship.  Hilary  recognized 
none  of  them.  He  only  had  a  vague 
idea  of  Captain  Bertley's  face  with  a 
grave  anxiety  and  a  deep  pity  upon  it 
as  the  officer  gazed  down  at  him  when 
he  was  borne  past  on  the  stretcher  to 
the  field  hospital  where  his  right  arm 
67 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

was  taken  off  by  the  surgeon.  He 
was  treated  as  kindly  as  possible,  for 
the  remembrance  of  his  gallant  spirit  as 
well  as  humanity's  sake,  and  when  at 
last  he  was  discharged  from  the  more 
permanent  hospital  to  which  he  had 
been  removed  he  realized  that  he 
had  indeed  done  with  war  and  fine 
deeds  of  valiance,  and  he  set  out  to 
return  home,  tramping  the  weary  way 
to  the  mountain  and  his  mother. 

After  that  fateful  day,  when  maimed 
and  wan  and  woebegone  he  came 
forth  from  the  hospital  and  jour 
neyed  out  from  among  the  camps  and 
flags  and  big  guns  and  all  the  arma 
ments  of  war,  thrice  splendid  to  his 
backward  gaze,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  left  there  more  than  was  vis 
ible — that  noble  identity  of  valor  for 
which  he  had  revered  himself. 

For  he  found  as  he  went  a  strange 
quaking  in  his  heart.  It  was  an  alien 
68 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

thing,  and  he  strove  to  repudiate  it, 
and  ached  with  helpless  despair. 
When  he  came  into  unfamiliar  regions, 
and  a  sudden  clatter  upon  the  lonely 
country  road  would  herald  the  ap 
proach  of  mounted  strangers,  halt 
ing  him,  the  convulsive  start  of  his 
maimed  right  arm  with  the  instinct  to 
seize  his  weapons  and  the  sense  of 
being  defenseless  utterly  would  so 
unnerve  him  that  he  would  give  a 
disjointed  account  of  himself,  with 
hang-dog  look  and  faltering  words. 
And  more  than  once  he  was  seized 
and  roughly  handled  and  dragged  to 
headquarters  to  show  his  papers  and 
be  at  last  passed  on  by  the  author 
ities. 

He  began  to  say  to  himself  that  his 
courage  was  in  his  cavalry  pistol. 

"Before  God!"  he  cried,  "me  an' 
my  right  arm  an*  my  weepon  air  like 
saltpetre  an'  charcoal  an'  sulphur — no 
69 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

'count  apart.  An*  tergether  they 
mean  gunpowder! 

And  doubly  bereaved,  he  had  come 
in  sight  of  home. 

But  his  mother  fell  upon  his  neck 
with  joy,  and  the  neighbors  gathered  to 
meet  him.  The  splendors  of  the  In 
dian  summer  were  deepening  upon  the 
mountains,  with  gorgeous  fantasies  of 
color,  with  errant  winds  harping  aeo- 
lian  numbers  in  the  pines,  with  a  trans 
lucent  purple  haze  and  a  great  red  sun, 
and  the  hunter's  moon,  most  luminous. 
The  solemnity  and  peace  stole  in  upon 
his  heart,  and  revived  within  him  that 
cherished  sense  of  home,  so  potent  with 
the  mountaineer,  and  in  some  wise  he 
was  consoled. 

Yet  he  hardly  paused.  In  this 
lighter  mood  he  went  on  to  the  settle 
ment,  eager  that  the  news  of  his  com 
ing  should  not  precede  him. 

There  was  the  bridge  to  cross  and  the 
70 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

rocky  ascent,  and  at  the  summit  stood 
the  first  log  cabin  of  the  scattered  lit 
tle  hamlet.  From  the  porch,  over 
grown  with  hop  vines,  he  heard  the 
whir  of  a  spinning  wheel.  He  saw 
the  girl  who  stood  beside  it  before  she 
noticed  the  sound  of  his  step.  Then 
she  turned,  staring  at  him  with  startled 
recognition,  despite  all  the  changes 
wrought  in  the  past  two  years.  "It 
air  me,"  he  said,  jocosely. 

From  his  hollow  eyes  and  sunken 
cheeks  and  wan  smile  her  gaze  fell 
upon  his  empty  sleeve.  She  sud 
denly  threw  her  arm  across  her  face. 
"I — I — can't  abide  ter  look  at  ye!" 
she  faltered,  with  a  gush  of  tears. 

He  stood  dumfounded  for  a  moment. 

"Burn  it!"  he  cried.  "I  can't  abide 
ter  look  at  myself!" 

And  with  a  bitter  laugh  he  turned 
on  his  heel. 

He  would  not  be  reconciled  later. 
71 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

The  wound  she  had  unintentionally 
dealt  him  rankled  long.  He  said  Delia 
Noakes  was  a  sensible  girl.  Plenty  of 
brave  fellows  would  come  home  from 
the  war,  hale  and  hearty  and  with  two 
good  arms,  better  men  in  every  way,  in 
mind  and  body  and  heart  and  soul,  for 
the  stern  experiences  they  were  endur 
ing  so  stanchly.  The  crop  of  sweet 
hearts  promised  to  be  indeed  particu 
larly  fine,  and  there  was  no  use  in 
wasting  politeness  on  a  fellow  with 
whom  she  used  to  play  before  either  of 
them  could  walk,  but  whose  arm  was 
gone  now,  through  no  glorious  deed 
wrought  for  his  country,  for  which  he 
had  intended  to  do  all  such  service  as 
a  man's  right  arm  might  compass,  but 
because  he  was  a  fool,  and  had  made  a 
friend  of  a  malevolent  scoundrel,  who 
had  nearly  taken  his  life,  but  had 
only — worse  luck — taken  his  right  arm ! 
And  besides  he  had  seen  enough  of  the 
72 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

world  in  his  wanderings  to  know  that 
it  behooves  people  to  look  to  the 
future  and  means  of  support.  He  had 
learned  what  it  was  to  be  hungry,  he 
had  learned  what  it  was  to  lack.  He 
was  no  longer  the  brave  and  warlike 
man-at-arms,  "Baby  Bunting."  He 
had  no  vocation,  no  possibility  of  a 
future  of  usefulness;  he  could  not  hold 
a  gun  or  a  plow  or  an  ax,  and  Delia 
doubtless  thought  he  would  not  be  able 
to  provide  for  her.  And  "dead  shot" 
though  he  had  been  he  could  not  now 
defend  himself,  he  declared  bitterly, 
much  less  her. 


73 


CHAPTER   III 

It  was  the  last  month  of  the  year, 
and  the  month  was  waning.  The 
winds  had  rifled  the  woods  and  the  sere 
leaves  all  had  fallen.  Yet  still  a  bright 
after-thought  of  the  autumnal  sunshine 
glowed  along  the  mountain  spurs,  for 
the  tardy  winter  loitered  on  the 
way,  and  the  silver  rime  that  lay 
on  the  black  frost-grapes  melted  at  a 
beam. 

"The  weather  hev  been  powerful 
onseasonable  an*  onreasonable,  ter  my 
mind,"  said  old  Jonas  Scruggs,  accept 
ing  a  rickety  chair  in  his  neighbor's 
porch.  "'Tain't  healthy." 

"Waal,  'tain't  goin'  ter  last,"  re 
joined  Mrs.  Knox,  from  the  doorway, 
where  she  sat  with  her  knitting. 
74 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

"'Twar  jes'  ter-day  I  seen  my  old 
gray  cat  run  up  that  thar  saplin'  an' 
hang  by  her  claws  with  her  head  down- 
'ards.  An'  I  hev  always  knowed  ez 
that  air  a  sure  sign  of  a  change. ' ' 

Presently  she  added,  "The  fire  air 
treadin*  snow  now." 

She  glanced  over  her  shoulder  at  the 
deep  chimney-place,  where  a  dull 
wood  fire  was  sputtering  fitfully  with  a 
sound  that  suggested  footfalls  crunch 
ing  on  a  crust  of  snow. 

"I  dunno  ez  I  need  be  a-hankerin' 
fur  a  change  in  the  weather,  cornsid- 
erin'  the  rheumatiz  in  my  shoulder  ez  I 
kerried  around  with  me  ez  a  constancy 
las'  winter,"  remarked  Jonas  Scruggs, 
pre-empting  a  grievance  in  any  event. 

"Thar's  the  wild  geese  a-sailin' 
south,"  Hilary  said,  in  a  low,  melan 
choly  drawl,  as  he  smoked  his  pipe, 
lounging  idly  on  the  step  of  the 
porch. 

75 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

His  mother  laid  her  knitting  in  her 
lap  and  gazed  over  her  spectacles  into 
the  concave  vault  of  the  sky,  so  vast 
as  seen  from  the  vantage  ground  of  the 
little  log  cabin  on  the  mountain's 
brow.  Bending  to  the  dark,  wooded 
ranges  encircling  the  horizon,  it 
seemed  of  a  crystalline  transparency 
and  of  wonderful  gradations  of  color. 
The  broad  blue  stretches  overhead 
merged  into  a  delicate  green  of  exqui 
site  purity,  and  thence  issued  a  suffusion 
of  the  faintest  saffron  in  which  flakes 
of  orange  burned  like  livmg  fire.  A 
jutting  spur  intercepted  the  sight  of 
the  sinking  sun,  and  with  its  dazzling 
disk  thus  screened,  upon  the  brilliant 
west  might  be  descried  the  familiar 
microscopic  angle  speeding  toward  the 
south.  A  vague  clamor  floated  down 
ward. 

1  'Them  towels,  sure  enough!"  she 
said.  "Sence  I  war  a  gal  I  hev 
76 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

knowed    'em  by  thar  flyin'    always  in 
that  thar  peaked  p'int." 

"They  keep  thar  alignment  ez 
reg'lar, "  said  her  son  suddenly, 
"jes'  like  we-uns  hev  ter  do  in  the 
army.  They  hev  actially  got  thar 
markers.  Look  at  'em  dress  thar  ranks ! 
An*  thar's  even  a  sergeant-major 
standin'  out  ez  stiff  an'  percise — see 
him!  Thar!  Column  forward !  Guide 
left!  March!"  he  cried  delightedly. 

"I  'lowed,  Hilary,  ez  ye  hed  in  an* 
about  hed  enough  o'  the  army,"  said 
the  guest,  bluntly. 

Hilary's  face  changed.  But  for 
some  such  reminder  he  sometimes  for 
got  that  missing  right  hand.  He 
made  no  answer,  his  moody  eyes  fas 
tened  on  that  aerial  marshaling  along 
the  vast  plain  of  the  sunset.  His  right 
arm  was  gone,  and  the  stump  dangled 
helplessly  with  its  superfluity  of  brown 
jeans  sleeve  bound  about  it. 
77 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

"Now  that  air  a  true  word!"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Knox,  "only  Hil'ry 
won't  hev  it  so.  /  'lows  ter  him  ez 
he  los'  his  arm  through  jinin'  the  Con- 
fed'  army,  an'  he  'lows  'twar  gittin'  in 
a  fight  with  one  o'  his  own  comrades." 

Jonas  Scruggs  glanced  keenly  at  her 
from  under  his  bushy,  grizzled  eye 
brows,  his  lips  solemnly  puckered,  and 
his  stubbly  pointed  chin  resting  on  his 
knotty  hands,  which  were  clasped  upon 
his  stout  stick.  He  had  the  dispas 
sionate,  pondering  aspect  of  an  umpire, 
which  seemed  to  invite  the  cheerful 
submission  of  differences. 

"Ye  knows  I  war  fur  the  Union,  an' 
sowar  his  dad,"  she  continued.  "My 
old  man  had  been  ailin'  ennyhows, 
but  this  hyar  talk  o'  bustin'  up  the 
Union — why,  it  jes'  fairly  harried  him 
inter  his  grave.  An'  I  'lowed  ez 
Hil'ry  would  be  fur  the  Union,  too, 
like  everybody  in  the  mountings  ez  hed 
78 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

good  sense.  But  when  a  critter-com 
pany  o'  Confeds  rid  up  the  mounting 
one  day  Hil'ry  he  talked  with  some  of 
'em,  an'  he  war  stubborn  ever  after. 
An*  so  he  jined  the  critter-company." 
She  fell  suddenly  silent,  and  taking 
up  her  needles  knitted  a  row  or  two, 
her  absorbed  eyes,  kindling  with  retro 
spection,  fixed  on  the  far  horizon,  for 
Mrs.  Knox  was  in  a  position  to  enjoy 
the  melancholy  pleasures  of  a  true 
prophet  of  evil,  and  although  she  had 
never  specifically  forewarned  Hilary  of 
the  precise  nature  of  the  disaster  that 
had  ensued  upon  his  enlistment,  she 
had  sought  to  defer  and  prevent  it, 
and  at  last  had  consented  only  because 
she  felt  she  must.  She  had  her  own 
secret  satisfaction  that  the  result  was 
no  worse ;  it  lacked  much  of  the  ghastly 
horrors  that  she  had  foreboded — death 
itself,  or  the  terrible  uncertainty  of 
hoping  against  hope,  and  fearing  the 
79 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

uttermost  dread  that  must  needs  abide 
with  those  to  whom  the  "missing"  are 
dear.  Never  now  could  the  fact  be 
worse,  and  thus  she  could  reconcile 
herself,  and  talk  of  it  with  a  certain 
relish  of  finality,  as  of  a  chapter  of 
intense  and  painful  interest  but  closed 
forever. 

The  old  man  nodded  his  head  with 
deliberative  gravity  until  she  recom 
menced,  when  he  relapsed  into  motion 
less  attention. 

"An'  Hil'ry  fought  in  a  heapo'  bat 
tles,  and  got  shot  a  time  or  two,  an' 
war  laid  up  in  the  horspital,  an'  kem  out 
cured,  an'  fought  agin.  An'  one  day  he 
got  inter  a  quar'l  with  one  o*  his  bes' 
frien's.  They  war  jes'  funnin'  afust,  an' 
Hil'ry  hit  him  harder'n  he  liked, 
an'  he  got  mad,  an'  bein'  a  horseback 
he  kicked  Hil'ry.  An'  Hil'ry  jumped 
on  him  ez  suddint  ez  a  painter,  ter 
pull  him  out'n  his  saddle  an'  drub  him. 
80 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

Hil'ry  never  drawed  no  shootin'  irons 
nor  nuthin',  an'  warn't  expectin'  ter 
hurt  him  serious.  But  this  hyar  Jack 
Bixby  he  war  full  o'  liquor  an*  fury; 
he  started  his  horse  a-gallopin',  an' 
ez  Hil'ry  hung  on  ter  the  saddle  he 
drawed  his  bowie-knife  an'  slashed 
Hil'ry's  arm  ez  war  holdin'  ter  him  agin 
an'  agin,  till  they  war  both  soakin'  in 
blood,  an'  at  last  Hil'ry  drapped.  An' 
the  arm  fevered,  an'  the  surgeon  tuk  it 
off.  An'  so  Hil'ry  hed  his  discharge 
gin  him,  sence  the  Confeds  hed  no  mo' 
use  fur  him.  An'  he  walked  home, 
two  hunderd  mile,  he  say." 

During  this  recital  the  young  moun 
taineer  gave  no  indication  of  its  effect 
upon  him,  and  offered  no  word  of  cor 
rection  to  conform  the  details  to  the 
facts.  His  mother  had  so  often  told 
his  story  with  the  negligence  of  the 
domestic  narrator,  that  little  by  little 
it  had  become  thus  distorted,  and  he 
81 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

knew  from  experience  that  should 
he  interfere  to  alter  a  phase,  another  as 
far  from  reality  would  be  presently 
substituted,  for  Mrs,  Knox  cared  little 
how  the  event  had  been  precipitated, 
or  for  aught  except  that  his  arm  was 
gone,  that  he  was  well,  and  that  she 
had  him  at  home  again,  from  which  he 
should  no  more  wander,  for  she  had 
endeavored  to  utilize  the  misfortune  to 
reinforce  her  authority,  and  illustrate 
her  favorite  dogma  of  the  infallibility 
of  her  judgment. 

Her  words  must  have  renewed  bit 
ter  reminiscences,  but  his  face  was 
impassive,  and  not  a  muscle  stirred  as 
he  silently  watched  the  ranks  of  the 
migrating  birds  fade  into  the  furthest 
distance. 

"An'  now  Hil'ry  thinks  it  air  cur'ous 

ez  I  ain't  sorrowin'  'bout'n  his  arm," 

she  continued.     "Naw,   sir!  I'm   glad 

he    escaped    alive    an'    that    he    can't 

82 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

fight  no  mo* — not  ef  the  war  lasts 
twenty  year,  an'  it  'pears  like  it  air 
powerful  persistin'." 

It  still  raged,  but  to  the  denizens  of 
this  sequestered  district  there  seemed 
little  menace  in  its  fury.  They  could 
hear  but  an  occasional  rumor,  like  the 
distant  rumbling  of  thunder,  and  dis 
cern,  as  it  were,  a  vague,  transient 
glimmer  as  token  of  the  fierce  and 
scathing  lightnings  far  away  desolating 
and  destroying  all  the  world  beyond 
these  limits  of  peace. 

Episodes  of  civilized  warfare  were 
little  dreaded  by  the  few  inhabitants  of 
the  mountains,  the  old  men,  the  women 
and  the  children,  so  dominated  were 
they  by  the  terrors  of  vagrant  bands 
of  stragglers  and  marauders,  classed 
under  the  generic  name  of  bushwhack 
ers,  repudiated  by  both  armies,  and 
given  over  to  the  plunder  of  non-com 
batants  of  both  factions  in  this  region 
83 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

of  divided  allegiance.  At  irregular 
intervals  they  infested  this  neighbor 
hood,  foraging  where  they  listed,  and 
housing  themselves  in  the  old  hotel. 

Looking  across  the  gorge  from 
where  the  three  sat  in  the  cabin  porch, 
there  was  visible  on  the  opposite 
heights  a  great  white  frame  building, 
many-windowed  and  with  wide  piazzas. 
There  were  sulphur  springs  hard  by, 
and  before  the  war  the  place  was 
famous  as  a  health  resort.  Now  it  was 
a  melancholy  spectacle — silent,  tenant- 
less,  vacant — infinitely  lonely  in  the 
vast  wilderness.  Some  of  the  doors, 
wrenched  from  their  hinges,  had  served 
the  raiders  for  fuel.  The  glass  had 
been  wantonly  broken  in  many  of  the 
windows  by  the  jocose  thrusts  of  a 
saber.  The  grassy  square  within  sur 
rounded  by  the  buildings  was  overgrown 
with  weeds,  and  here  lizards  basked, 
and  in  their  season  wild  things  nested. 
84 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

There  was  never  a  suggestion  of  the 
gayeties  of  the  past — only  in  the 
deserted  old  ball-room  when  a  slant  of 
sunshine  would  fall  athwart  the  dusty 
floor,  a  bluebottle  might  airily  zigzag  in 
the  errant  gleam,  or  when  the  moon 
was  bright  on  the  long  piazzas  a  cob 
web,  woven  dense,  would  flaunt  out 
between  the  equidistant  shadows  of  the 
columns  like  the  flutter  of  a  white 
dress.  The  place  had  a  weird  aspect, 
and  was  reputed  haunted.  The  simple 
mountaineers  did  not  venture  within 
it,  and  the  ghosts  had  it  much  of  the 
time  to  themselves. 

The  obscurities  of  twilight  were 
presently  enfolded  about  it.  The 
white  walls  rose,  vaguely  glimmering, 
against  the  pine  forests  in  the  back 
ground,  and  above  the  shadowy  abysses 
which  it  overlooked. 

The  old  man  was  gazing  medita 
tively  at  it  as  he  said,  reprehensively, 
85 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

"  'Pears  like  ter  me,  Hil'ry,  ez  ye 
oughter  be  thankful  ye  warn't  killed 
utterly — ye  oughter  be  thankful  it  air 
no  wuss." 

"Hil'ry  ain't  thankful  fur  haffen  o' 
nuthin',"  Mrs.  Knox  interposed. 
"'Twar  jes*  las'  night  he  looked  like 
su'thin'  in  a  trap.  He  walked  the 
floor  till  nigh  day — till  I  jes'  tuk  heart 
o'  grace  an*  told  him  ez  his  dad  hed 
laid  them  puncheons  ter  last,  an'  not 
to  be  walked  on  till  they  were  wore 
thinner' n  a  clapboard  in  one  night. 
An'  yit  he  air  alive  an'  hearty,  an'  I 
hev  got  my  son  agin.  An'  I  sets  ez 
much  store  by  him  with  one  arm 
ez  two." 

And  indeed  she  looked  cheerfully 
about  the  dusky  landscape  as  she  rose, 
rolling  the  sock  on  her  needles  and 
thrusting  them  into  the  ball  of  yarn. 
Old  Jonas  Scruggs  hesitated  when  she 
told  him  alluringly  that  she  had  a 
86 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

"mighty  nice  ash  cake  kivered  on  the 
h'a'th,"  but  he  said  that  his  daughter- 
in-law,  Jerusha,  would  be  expecting 
him,  and  he  could  in  no  wise  bide  to 
supper.  And  finally  he  started  home 
ward  a  little  wistful,  but  serene  in  the 
consciousness  of  having  obeyed  the 
behests  of  Jerusha,  who  in  these  hard 
times  had  grown  sensitive  about  his 
habit  of  taking  meals  with  his  friends. 
"As  ef,"  she  argued,  "I  fed  ye  on 
half  rations  at  home." 

Hilary  rose  at  last  from  the  doorstep, 
and  turning  slowly  to  go  within,  his 
absent  glance  swept  the  night- 
shadowed  scene.  He  paused  suddenly, 
and  his  heart  seemed  beating  in  his 
throat. 

A  point  of  red  light  had  sprung  up  in 
the  vague  glooms.  A  will-o'-the-wisp? 
—  some  wavering  "ghost's  candle" 
to  light  him  to  his  grave.  With  his 
accurate  knowledge  of  the  locality  he 
87 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

sought  to  place  it.  The  distant  gleam 
seemed  to  shine  from  a  window  of  the 
old  hotel,  and  this  bespoke  the  arrival 
of  rude  occupants.  He  heard  a  wild 
halloo,  a  snatch  of  song  perhaps — or 
was  it  fancy?  And  were  the  iterative 
echoes  in  the  gorge  the  fancy  of  the 
stern  old  crags? 

For  the  first  time  since  he  returned, 
maimed  and  helpless,  and  a  non-com 
batant,  were  the  lawless  marauders 
quartered  at  the  old  hotel. 

He  stood  for  a  while  gazing  at  it 
with  dilated  eyes.  Then  he  silently 
stepped  within  the  cabin  and  barred  the 
door  with  his  uncertain  and  awkward 
left  hand. 

The  cheerful  interior  of  the  house 
was  all  aglow.  The  fire  had  been 
mended,  and  yellow  flames  were  undu 
lating  about  the  logs  with  many  a 
gleaming  line  of  grace.  Blue  and  pur 
ple  and  scarlet  flashes  they  showed  in 
88 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

fugitive  iridescence.  They  illumined 
his  face,  and  his  mother  noted  its  pal 
lor —  the  deep  pallor  which  he  had 
brought  from  the  hospital. 

"Ye  hev  got  yer  fancies  ag'in,"  she 
cried.  Then  with  anxious  curiosity, 
"Whar  be  yer  right  hand  now,  Hil'ry?" 

She  alluded  to  that  cruel  hallucina 
tion  of  sensation  in  an  amputated  arm. 

"Whar  it  oughter  be,"  he  groaned; 
"on  the  trigger  o'  my  carbine." 

His  grief  was  not  only  that  his  arm 
was  gone.  It  was  to  recognize  the 
fact  that  his  heart  no  longer  beat 
exultantly  at  the  mere  prospect  of 
conflict.  And  he  was  anguished  with 
the  poignant  despair  of  a  helpless  man 
who  has  once  been  foremost  in  the 
fight. 

The  next  day  he  was  moody  and 
morose,  and  brooded  silently  over  the 
fire.  The  doors  were  closed,  for  win 
ter  had  come  at  last.  The  hoar  frost 
89 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

whitened  the  great  gaunt  limbs  of  the 
trees,  and  lay  in  every  curled  dead  leaf 
on  the  ground,  and  followed  the  zig 
zag  lines  of  the  fence,  and  embossed 
the  fodder  stack  and  the  ash-hopper 
and  the  roofs  with  fantastic  incongru 
ities  in  silver  tracery. 

The  sun  did  not  shine,  the  clouds 
dropped  lower  and  lower  still,  a  wind 
sprung  up,  and  presently  the  snow  was 
flying. 

The  widow  esteemed  this  as  in  the 
nature  of  a  special  providence,  since 
the  dizzying  whirl  of  white  flakes  veiled 
the  little  cabin  and  its  humble  sur 
roundings  from  the  observation  of  the 
free-booting  tenants  of  the  old  hotel 
across  the  gorge.  "It  air  powerful 
selfish,  I  know,  ter  hope  the  bush 
whackers  will  forage  on  somebody 
else's  poultry  an*  sech,  but  somehows 
my  own  chickens  seem  nigher  kin  ter 
me  than  other  folkses*  be.  I  never  see 
90 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

no  sech  ten-toed  chickens  ez  mine 
nowhar. 

Reflecting  further  upon  the  peculiar 
merits  of  these  chickens,  ten-toed, 
being  Dorking,  reinforced  by  the 
claims  of  consanguinity,  she  pres 
ently  evolved  as  a  precautionary  meas 
ure  a  scheme  of  concealing  them  in 
the  "roof- room"  of  the  cabin.  And 
from  time  to  time,  as  the  silent  day 
wore  on,  like  the  blast  of  a  bugle 
the  crow  of  a  certain  irrepressible 
young  rooster  demonstrated  how 
precarious  was  his  retirement  in  the 
loft. 

"Hear  the  insurance  o'  that  thar 
fow^//"  she  would  exclaim  in  exasper 
ation.  "S'pose'n  the  bushwhackers 
war  hyar  now,  axin  fur  poultry,  an'  I 
war  a-tellin'  'em,  ez  smilin'  an'  mealy- 
mouthed  ez  I  could,  that  we  hain't  got 
no  iovfels!  That  thar  reckless  critter 
would  be  in  the  fryin'-pan  'fore  night. 
91 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

They'll  1'arn  ye  ter  hold  yer  jaw,  I'll 
be  bound!" 

But  the  bushwhackers  did  not  come, 
and  the  next  day  the  veil  of  the  falling 
snow  still  interposed,  and  the  familiar 
mountains  near  at  hand,  and  the  long 
reaches  of  the  unexplored  perspective 
were  all  obscured;  the  drifts  deep 
ened,  and  the  fence  seemed  dwarfed 
half  covered  as  it  was,  and  the  boles  of 
the  trees  hard  by  were  burlier,  bereft 
of  their  accustomed  height.  The 
storm  ceased  late  one  afternoon;  over 
the  white  earth  was  a  somber  gray 
sky,  but  all  along  the  horizon  above 
the  snowy  summits  of  the  western 
mountains  a  slender  scarlet  line  beto 
kened  a  fair  morrow. 

Hilary,  in  the  weariness  of  inaction, 
had  taken  note  of  the  weather,  and 
with  his  hat  drawn  down  over  his  brow 
he  strolled  out  to  the  verge  of  the 
precipice. 

92 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

Overlooking  the  familiar  landscape, 
he  detected  an  unaccustomed  smoke 
visible  a  mile  or  more  down  the  narrow 
valley.  Although  but  a  tiny,  hazy 
curl  in  the  distance,  it  did  not  escape 
the  keen  eyes  of  the  mountaineer. 
He  could  not  distinguish  tents  against 
the  snow,  but  the  location  suggested 
a  camp. 

The  bushwhackers  still  lingered  at 
the  old  hotel  across  the  gorge.  He 
could  already  see  in  the  gathering  dusk 
the  firelight  glancing  fitfully  against 
the  window.  He  wondered  if  it  were 
visible  as  far  as  the  camp  in  the  valley. 

He  stood  for  a  long  time,  gazing 
across  the  snowy  steeps  at  the  desolate 
old  building,  with  the  heavy  pine  for 
ests  about  it  and  the  crags  below — 
their  dark  faces  seamed  with  white 
lines  wherever  a  drift  had  lodged  in  a 
cleft  or  the  interlacing  tangles  of  icy 
vines  might  cling.  In  the  pallid  drear- 
93 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

iness  of  the  landscape  and  the  gray 
dimness  of  the  hovering  night  the 
lighted  window  blazed  with  the  lambent 
splendors  of  some  great  yellow  topaz. 
His  uncontrolled  fancy  was  trespassing 
upon  the  scene  within.  His  heart  was 
suddenly  all  a-throb  with  keen  pain. 
His  idle,  vague  imaginings  of  the  stal 
wart  horsemen  and  what  they  were 
now  doing  had  revived  within  him  that 
insatiate  longing  for  the  martial  life 
which  he  had  loved,  that  ineffable  grief 
for  the  opportunity  of  brave  deeds  of 
value  which  he  felt  he  had  lost. 

The  drill  had  taught  him  the  mastery 
of  his  muscles,  but  those  more  potent 
forces,  his  impulses,  had  known  no 
discipline.  A  wild  inconsequence  now 
possessed  him.  He  took  no  heed  of  rea 
son,  of  prudence.  He  was  dominated 
by  the  desire  to  look  in  upon  the  bush 
whackers  from  without — they  would 
never  know — undiscovered,  unimag- 
94 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

ined,  like  some  vague  and  vagrant 
specter  that  might  wander  forlorn  in 
the  labyrinthine  old  house. 

With  an  alert  step  he  turned  and 
strode  away  into  the  little  cabin.  It 
was  very  cheerful  around  the  hearth, 
and  the  first  words  he  heard  reminded 
him  of  the  season. 

His  younger  brother,  a  robust  lad  of 
thirteen,  was  drawling  reminiscences 
of  other  and  happier  Christmas-tides. 

"Sech  poppin*  o*  guns  ez  we-uns 
used  ter  hev!"  said  the  tow-headed 
boy,  listlessly  swinging  his  heels  against 
the  rungs  of  the  chair. 

"The  Lord  knows  thar's  enough 
poppin'  of  guns  now!"  said  his  mother. 
She  stooped  to  insert  a  knife  under  the 
baking  hoe-cake  for  the  purpose  of 
turning  it,  which  she  did  with  a  certain, 
deft  and  agile  flap,  difficult  of  acquire 
ment  and  impossible  to  the  uniniti 
ated. 

95 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 


<  i 


I  'members,"  she  added,  viva 
ciously,  "we-uns  used  ter  always  hev  a 
hollow  log  charged  with  powder  an' 
tech  it  off  fur  the  Chris'mus.  It 
sounded  like  thunder — like  the  cannon 
the  folks  hev  got  nowadays." 

"An'  hawg-killin'  times  kem  about 
the  Chris'mus,"  said  the  boy,  sustain 
ing  his  part  in  the  fugue. 

"Folks  had  hawgs  ter  kill  in  them 
days,"  was  his  mother's  melancholy 
rejoinder  as  she  meditated  on  the  con 
trast  of  the  pinched  penury  of  the 
present  with  the  peace  and  plenty  of 
the  past  when  there  was  no  war  nor 
rumor  of  war. 

"Ef  ye  git  a  hawg's  bladder  an' 
blow  it  up  an'  tie  the  eend  right  tight 
an'  stomp  on  it  suddint  it  will  crack 
ez  loud!"  said  the  noise-loving  boy. 
"Peas  air  good  ter  rattle  in  'em,  too," 
he  added,  with  a  wistful  smile,  dwell 
ing  on  the  clamors  of  his  happy  past. 
96 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

"Waal,  folks  ezhed  good  sense  seen 
more  enjyement  in  eatin'  spare-ribs 
an'  souse  an'  sech  like  hawg-meat  than 
in  stomping  on  hawgs'  bladders.  I 
hev  never  favored  hawg-killin'  times 
jes'  ter  gin  a  noisy  boy  the  means  ter 
keep  Christian  folks  an'  church  mem 
bers  a-jumpin'  out'n  thar  skins  with 
suddint  skeer  all  the  Chris'mus." 

This  was  said  with  the  severity  of  a 
personality,  but  the  boy's  face  dis 
tended  as  he  listened. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  brightened  with 
excitement.  "Hil'ry,"  he  cried,  joy 
ously,  "be  you-uns  a-goin'  ter  fire  that 
thar  pistol  off  fur  the  Chris'mus?" 

Mrs.  Knox  rose  from  her  kneeling 
posture  on  the  hearth  and  stared 
blankly  at  Hilary. 

He  had  come  within  the  light  of  the 

fire.     His  eyes  were  blazing,  his  pale 

cheeks  flushed,   his  long,    lank  figure 

was  tense  with  energy.     The  weapon 

97 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

in  his  hand  glittered  as  he  held  it  at 
arm's  length. 

"Bein'  ez  it  air  ready  loaded  I 
reckon  mebbe  I  ain't  so  awk'ard  yit 
but  I  could  make  out  ter  fire  it  ef  I 
war  cornered,"  he  muttered,  as  if  to 
himself.  "Leastwise,  I'll  take  it  along 
fur  company." 

''Air  ye  goin*  ter  fire  it  'kase  this 
be  Chris'mus  eve?"  she  asked  in  doubt. 

He  glanced  absently  at  her  and  said 
not  a  word. 

The  next  moment  he  had  sprung 
out  of  the  door  and  they  heard  his 
step  crunching  through  the  frozen  crust 
of  snow  as  he  strode  away. 

There  were  rifts  in  the  clouds  and 
the  moon  looked  out.  The  white, 
untrodden  road  lay,  a  glittering  avenue, 
far  along  the  solitudes  of  the  dense 
and  leafless  forests.  Sometimes  belts 
of  vapor  shimmered  before  him,  and 
as  he  went  he  saw  above  them  the  dis- 
98 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

tant  gables  of  the  old  hotel  rising 
starkly  against  the  chill  sky.  In  view 
presently  in  the  white  moonlight  were 
the  long  piazzas  of  the  shattered  old 
building,  the  shadows  of  the  many 
tall  pillars  distinct  upon  the  floor. 
He  heard  the  sound  of  the  sentry's 
tread,  and  down  the  vista  between  the 
columns  and  the  shadowy  colonnade 
he  saw  the  soldierly  figure  pacing  slowly 
to  and  fro. 

He  had  not  reckoned  on  this  pre 
caution  on  the  part  of  the  bushwhack 
ers.  But  the  rambling  old  building, 
in  every  nook  and  cranny,  was  familiar 
to  him.  While  the  sentry's  back  was 
turned,  he  silently  crept  along  the 
piazza  to  an  open  passageway  which 
led  to  the  grassy  square  within. 

The  rime  on  the  dead  weeds  glis 
tened  in  the  moonbeams;  the  snow  lay 
trampled  along  the  galleries  on  which 
opened  the  empty  rooms;  here  and 
99 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

there,  as  the  doors  swung  on  their 
hinges,  he  could  see  through  the  deso 
late  void  within,  the  bleak  landscape 
beyond.  There  were  horses  stabled  in 
some  of  them,  and  in  the  center  of  the 
square  two  or  three  were  munching 
their  feed  from  the  old  music-stand, 
utilized  as  a  manger.  One  of  them,  a 
handsome  bay,  arched  his  glossy  neck 
to  gaze  at  the  intruder  over  the  gauzy 
sheen  of  gathering  vapor,  his  full 
dilated  eyes  with  the  moonlight  in 
them.  Then  with  a  snort  he  went 
back  to  his  corn. 

Only  one  window  was  alight.  There 
was  a  roaring  fire  within,  and  the  ruddy 
glow  danced  on  the  empty  walls  and 
on  the  hilarious,  bearded  faces  grouped 
about  the  hearth.  The  men,  clad  in 
butternut  jeans,  smoked  their  pipes  as 
they  sat  on  logs  or  lounged  at  length 
on  the  floor.  A  festive  canteen  was  a 
prominent  adjunct  of  the  scene,  and 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

was  often  replenished  from  a.bnrly  -keg 
in  the  corner. 

As  Hilary  approached  the  window 
he  suddenly  recognized  a  face  which 
he  had  cause  to  remember.  He  had 
not  seen  this  face  since  Jack  Bixby 
looked  furiously  down  from  his  saddle, 
hacking  the  while  with  his  bowie- 
knife  at  his  comrade's  bleeding  right 
arm.  No  enemy  had  done  this  thing 
— Hilary's  own  fast  friend. 

He  divined  readily  enough  that  after 
this  dastardly  deed  Bixby  had  not 
dared  to  seek  to  rejoin  Captain  Bert- 
ley's  squadron,  and  thus  had  found 
kindred  spirits  among  this  maraud 
ing  band  of  bushwhackers.  His  face 
was  not  flushed  with  liquor  now — 
twice  the  canteen  passed  Jack  Bixby 
unheeded.  His  big  black  hat  was 
thrust  far  back  on  his  shock  of  red 
hair;  he  held  his  great  red  beard 
meditatively  in  one  hand,  while  the 

101 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

other  fluttered  the  pages  of  a  letter. 
'He  slowly  fead  aloud,  in  a  droning 
voice,  now  and  then,  from  the  ill- 
spelled  scrawl.  He  looked  up  some 
times  laughing,  and  they  all  laughed  in 
sympathy. 

"  'Pete  Blake  he  axed  'bout  ye,  an' 
sent  his  respec's,  an'  Jerry  Dunders 
says  tell  ye  'Howdy'  fur  him,  though 
ye  be  fightin*  on  the  wrong  side.'  ! 

''Jerry, "  he  explained  in  a  conver 
sational  tone,  "he  jined  the  Loyal 
Tennesseans  over  yander  in  White 
County." 

He  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoul 
der  westward,  and  one  of  the  men  said 
that  he  had  known  Jerry  since  he  was 
"knee-high  ter  a  duck." 

In  a  strained,  unnatural  tone  Jack 
Bixby  laboriously  read  on. 

"  'Little  Ben  prays  at  night  fur  you. 
He  prayed  some  last  night  out'n  his 
own  head.  He  said  he  prayed  the 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

good  Lord  would  deliver  daddy  from 
all  harm.'" 

The  man's  eyes  were  glistening.  He 
laughed  hurriedly,  but  he  coughed, 
too,  and  the  comrade  who  knew  Jerry 
at  so  minute  a  size  seemed  also 
acquainted  with  little  Ben,  and  said  a 
"pearter  young  one"  had  never 
stepped.  "  'He  prayed  the  good  Lord 
would  deliver  daddy  from  all  harm/  : 
Jack  Bixby  solemnly  repeated  as  he 
folded  the  letter.  And  silence  fell 
upon  the  group. 

Hilary,  strangely  softened,  was  turn 
ing — he  was  quietly  slipping  away 
from  the  window  when  he  became  sud 
denly  aware  that  there  were  other 
stealthy  figures  in  the  square,  and  he 
saw  through  the  frosty  panes  the  scared 
face  of  the  sentry  bursting  into  the 
doorway  with  a  tardy  alarm. 

There  was  a  rush  from  the  square. 
Pistol  shots  rang  out  sharp  on  the  chill 
103 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

air,  and  the  one-armed  man,  conscious 
of  his  helpless  plight,  entrapped  in  the 
mel£e,  fled  as  best  he  might  through 
the  familiar  intricacies  of  the  old  hotel — 
up  the  stairs,  through  echoing  halls 
and  rooms,  and  down  a  long  corridor, 
till  he  paused  panting  and  breathless 
in  the  door  of  the  old  ball-room. 

The  rude,  unplastered,  whitewashed 
walls  were  illumined  by  the  moonlight, 
for  all  down  one  side  of  the  long  apart 
ment  the  windows  overlooking  the 
gorge  were  full  of  the  white  radiance, 
and  in  glittering  squares  it  lay  upon 
the  floor. 

He  remembered  suddenly  that  there 
was  no  other  means  of  egress.  To  be 
found  here  was  certain  capture.  As 
he  turned  to  retrace  his  way  he  heard 
swift  steps  approaching.  Guided  by 
the  sound  of  his  flight  one  of  the  sur 
prised  party  had  followed  him,  lured 
by  the  hope  of  escape. 
104 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

There  was  evidently  a  hot  pursuit  in 
the  rear.  Now  and  then  the  long  halls 
reverberated  with  pistol  shots,  and  a 
bullet  buried  itself  in  the  door  as  Jack 
Bixby  burst  into  the  room.  He  stared 
aghast. at  his  old  comrade  for  an  instant. 
Then  as  he  heard  the  rapid  footfalls, 
the  jingle  of  spurs,  the  clamor  of  voices 
behind  him,  he  ran  to  one  of  the  win 
dows.  He  drew  back  dismayed  by  the 
sight  of  the  depths  of  the  gorge  below. 
He  was  caught  as  in  a  trap. 

Hilary  Knox  could  never  account 
for  the  inspiration  of  that  moment. 

At  right  angles  with  the  loftier  main 
building  a  one-story  wing  jutted  out, 
and  the  space  within  its  gable  roof  and 
above  its  ceiling,  which  was  on  a  level 
with  the  floor  of  the  ball-room,  was 
separated  from  that  apartment  only  by 
a  rude  screen  of  boards. 

Hilary  burst  one  of  these  rough 
boards  loose  at  the  lower  end,  and  held 
105 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

it  back  with  the  left  hand  spared 
him. 

"Jump  through,  Jack!"  he  cried  out 
to  his  old  enemy.  "Jump  through 
the  plaster  o'  the  ceilin'  right  hyar. 
The  counter  in  the  bar-room  down  thar 
will  break  yer  fall." 

Jack  Bixby  sprang  through  the  dark 
aperture.  There  was  a  crash  within 
as  the  plaster  fell. 

The  next  moment  a  bullet  whizzed 
through  Hilary's  hat,  and  the  ball 
room  was  astir  with  armed  men; 
among  them  Hilary  recognized  other 
mountaineers,  old  friends  and  neighbors 
who  had  joined  the  "Loyal  Tennes- 
seans." 

' '  I  never  would  hev  thought  ye  would 
hev  let  Jack  Bixby  git  past  ye  arter 
the  way  he  treated  ye,"  one  of  them 
remarked,  when  the  search  had  proved 
futile. 

"Waal,"  said  Hilary,  miserably,  "I 
106 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

hain't  bed  much  grit  nohows  sence  the 
surgeon  took  off  my  arm." 

His  interlocutor  looked  curiously  at 
the  hole  in  the  young  fellow's  hat, 
pierced  while  he  stood  his  ground  that 
another  man  might  escape.  Hilary 
had  no  nice  sense  of  discrimination. 
His  idea  of  courage  was  the  onslaught. 

The  others  crowded  about,  and 
Hilary  relished  the  suggestions  of  mili 
tary  comradeship  that  clung  about 
them,  albeit  they  were  of  the  opposing 
faction,  for  they  seemed  so  strangely 
cordial.  Each  must  needs  shake  his 
hand — his  awkward  left  hand — and  he 
was  patted  on  the  back,  and  one  big, 
bluff  soul,  who  beamed  on  him  with  a 
broadly  delighted  smile,  gave  him  a 
severe  hug,  such  as  a  fatherly  bear 
might  administer. 

"Hil'ry  ain't  got  much  grit,  he 
says,"  one  of  them  remarked  with  a 
guffaw.  "He  jes'  helped  another  feller 
107 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

escape  whut  he  hed  a  grudge  agin, 
while  he  stood  ez  onconsarned  ez  a 
target,  an'  I  shot  him  through  the  hat 
an'  the  ball  ploughed  up  his  scalp  in 
good  fashion.  Glad  my  aim  warn't  a 
leetle  mended." 

Hilary's  hat  was  gone;  one  of  the 
men  persisted  in  an  exchange,  and 
Hilary  wore  now  a  fresh  new  one  in 
stead  of  that  so  hastily  snatched  from 
him  as  a  souvenir. 

He  thought  they  were  all  sorry  for 
him  because  of  the  loss  of  his  arm ;  yet 
this  was  strange,  for  many  men  had 
lost  limb  and  life  at  the  hands  of  this 
troop,  which  was  of  an  active  and 
bloody  reputation.  He  could  not 
dream  they  thought  him  a  hero — 
these  men  accustomed  to  deeds  of 
daring!  He  had  no  faint  concep 
tion  of  the  things  they  were  saying  of 
him  to  one  another,  of  his  gallantry 
and  his  high  and  noble  courage  in  risk- 
108 


THE   BUSHWHACKERS 

ing  his  life  that  his  personal  enemy 
might  escape,  when  there  was  a  chance 
for  but  one — his  false  friend,  who  had 
destroyed  his  right  arm — as  they 
mounted  their  horses  and  rode  away 
to  their  camp  in  the  valley  with  the 
prisoners  they  had  taken. 

Hilary  stood  listening  wistfully  to 
the  jingling  of  their  spurs  and  the 
clanking  of  their  sabers  and  the  regu 
lar  beat  of  the  hoofs  of  the  galloping 
troop — sounds  from  out  the  familiar 
past,  from  thrilling  memories,  how 
dear! 

Then  as  he  plodded  along  the  lonely 
wintry  way  homeward  he  was  dismayed 
to  reflect  upon  his  own  useless,  maimed 
life — upon  what  he  had  suffered  and 
what  he  had  done. 

1  'What  ailed  me  ter  let  him  off?" 
he  exclaimed  in  amaze.  "What  ailed 
me  ter  help  him  git  away — jes*  ac 
count  o'  the  word  o'  a  w'uthless  brat. 
109 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

Fur  me  ter  let  him  off  when  I  hed  my 
chance  ter  pay  my  grudge  so  slick!" 

He  paused  on  the  jagged  verge  of  a 
crag  and  looked  absently  over  the  vast 
dim  landscape,  bounded  by  the  snowy 
ranges  about  the  horizon.  Here  and 
there  mists  hovered  above  the  valley, 
but  the  long  slant  of  the  moonbeams 
pervaded  the  scene  and  lingered  upon 
its  loneliness  with  luminous  melan 
choly.  The  translucent  amber  sphere 
was  sinking  low  in  the  vaguely  violet 
sky,  and  already  the  dark  summits  of 
the  westward  pines  showed  a  fibrous 
glimmer. 

In  the  east  a  great  star  was  quiver 
ing,  most  radiant,  most  pellucid.  He 
gazed  at  it  with  sudden  wistfulness. 
Christmas  dawn  was  near — and  this 
was  the  herald  of  redemption.  So  well 
it  was  for  him  that  science  had  never 
invaded  these  skies!  His  simple  faith 
beheld  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  that  the 

no 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

wise  men  saw  when  they  fell  down 
and  worshiped.  He  broke  from  his 
moody  regrets — ah,  surely,  of  all  the 
year  this  was  the  time  when  a  child's 
prayer  should  meet  most  gracious  heed 
in  heaven,  should  most  prevail  on 
earth!  His  heart  was  stirred  with  a 
strange  and  solemn  thrill,  and  he 
blessed  the  impulse  of  forgiveness  for 
the  sake  of  a  little  child. 

A  roseate  haze  had  gathered  about 
the  star,  deepening  and  glowing  till 
the  sun  was  in  the  east,  and  the  splen 
did  Day,  charged  with  the  sanctities  of 
commemoration,  with  the  fulfillment 
of  prophecy,  with  the  promises  of  all 
futurity,  came  glittering  over  the 
mountains. 

But  the  sun  was  a  long  way  off,  and 
its  brilliancy  made  scant  impression  on 
the  intense  cold.  Thus  it  was  he 
noticed,  as  he  came  in  sight  of  home, 
that,  despite  the  icy  atmosphere,  the 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

cabin  door  was  ajar.  It  moved  un 
certainly,  yet  no  wind  stirred. 

"Thar's  somebody  ahint  the  door  ez 
hev  seen  me  a-comin'  an'  air  waitin' 
ter  ketch  me  '  Chris'  mus  Gift/1'  he 
argued,  astutely. 

To  forestall  this  he  took  a  devious 
path  through  the  brush,  sprang  sud 
denly  upon  the  porch,  thrust  in  his 
arm,  and  clutched  the  unwary  party 
ambushed  behind  the  door. 

"Chris'mus  Gift!"  he  shouted,  as 
he  burst  into  the  room. 

But  it  was  Delia  waiting  for  him, 
blushing  and  embarrassed,  and  seeming 
nearer  tears  than  laughter.  And  his 
mother  was  chuckling  in  enjoyment  of 
the  situation. 

"Now,  whyn't  ye  let  Dely  ketch 
you-uns  Chris'mus  Gift  like  she  counted 
on  doin',  stiddier  ketchin'  her?  She 
hain't  got  nuthin'  ter  gin  yer  fur 
Chris'mus  Gift  but  herself." 

112 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

Hilary  knew  her  presence  here  and 
the  enterprise  of  ' '  catching  him  Christ 
mas  Gift"  was  another  overture  at 
reconciliation,  but  when  he  said, 
"Waal,  I'll  thank  ye  kindly,  Dely," 
she  still  looked  at  him  in  silence,  with 
a  timorous  eye  and  a  quivering  lip. 

"But,  law!"  exclakned  Mrs.  Knox, 
still  laughing,  "I  needn't  set  my  heart 
on  dancin'  at  the  weddin'.  Dely 
ain't  noways  ter  be  trusted.  She  hev 
done  like  a  Injun-giver  afore  now. 
Mebbe  she'll  take  herself  away  from  ye 
agin." 

Delia  found  her  voice  abruptly. 

"No— I  won't,  nuther!"  she  said, 
sturdily. 

And  thus  it  was  settled. 

They  made  what  Christmas  cheer 
they  could,  and  he  told  them  of  a  new 
plan  as  they  sat  together  round  the  fire. 
The  women  humored  it  as  a  sick  fancy. 
They  never  thought  to  see  it  proved. 
"3 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

At  the  school  held  at  irregular  intervals 
before  the  war  he  had  picked  up  a  lit 
tle  reading  and  a  smattering  of  writing. 
This  Christmas  day  he  began  anew. 
He  manufactured  ink  of  logwood  that 
had  been  saved  for  dyeing,  and  the 
goose  lent  him  a  quill.  An  old  blank 
book,  thrown  aside  when  the  hotel 
proprietors  had  removed  their  valu 
ables,  served  as  paper. 

As  his  mother  had  said  it  was  not 
Hilary's  nature  to  be  thankful  for  the 
half  of  anything;  he  attacked  the 
unpromising  future  with  that  undis 
mayed  ardor  that  had  distinguished 
him  in  those  cavalry  charges  in  which 
he  had  loved  to  ride.  With  practice 
his  left  hand  became  deft;  before  the 
war  was  over  he  was  a  fair  scribe, 
and  he  often  pridefully  remarked  that 
he  could  n't  be  flanked  on  spelling. 
Removing  to  one  of  the  valley  towns, 
seeking  a  sphere  of  wider  usefulness, 
n4 


THE    BUSHWHACKERS 

his  mental  qualities  and  sterling  char 
acter  made  themselves  known  and  his 
vocation  gradually  became  assured. 
He  was  first  elected  register  of  the 
county  of  his  new  home,  and  later 
clerk  of  the  circuit  court.  Other  pre 
ferments  came  to  him,  and  the  world 
went  well  with  him.  It  became 
broader  to  his  view  and  of  more  gra 
cious  aspect;  his  leisure  permitted 
reading  and  reading  fostered  thought. 
He  learned  that  there  are  more  potent 
influences  than  force,  and  he  recog 
nized  as  the  germ  of  these  benignities 
that  impulse  of  peace  and  good  will 
which  he  consecrated  for  the  sake  of 
One  who  became  as  a  Little  Child. 


THE  PANTHER 

OF 

JOLTON'S  RIDGE 


THE  PANTHER 

OF 

JOLTON'S   RIDGE 


CHAPTER  I 

A  certain  wild  chasm,  cut  deep  into 
the  very  heart  of  a  spur  of  the  Great 
Smoky  Mountains,  is  spanned  by  a 
network,  which  seen  from  above  is  the 
heavy  interlacing  timbers  of  a  railroad 
bridge  thrown  across  the  narrow  space 
from  one  great  cliff  to  the  other,  but 
seen  from  the  depths  of  the  gorge 
below  it  seems  merely  a  fantastic  gos 
samer  web  fretting  the  blue  sky. 

It  often  trembles  with  other  sounds 

than     the      reverberating      mountain 

thunder    and    beneath    other    weight 

than   the  heavy   fall  of  the  mountain 

119 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

rain.  Trains  flash  across  it  at  all 
hours  of  the  night  and  day;  in  the 
darkness  the  broad  glare  of  the  head 
light  and  the  flying  column  of  pursu 
ing  sparks  have  all  the  scenic  effect  of 
some  strange  uncanny  meteor,  with  the 
added  emphasis  of  a  thunderous  roar 
and  a  sulphurous  smell;  in  the  sun 
shine  there  skims  over  it  at  intervals  a 
cloud  of  white  vapor  and  a  swift  black 
shadow. 

"Sence  they  hev  done  sot  up  that 
thar  bridge  I  hain't  seen  a  bar  nor  a 
deer  in  five  mile  down  this  hyar  gorge. 
An*  the  fish  don't  rise  nuther  like  they 
uster  do.  That  thar  racket  skeers  'em." 

And  the  young  hunter,  leaning  upon 
his  rifle,  his  hands  idly  clasped  over  its 
muzzle,  gazed  with  disapproving  eyes 
after  the  flying  harbinger  of  civiliza 
tion  as  it  sped  across  the  airy  structure 
and  plunged  into  the  deep  forest  that 
crowned  the  heights. 

120 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

Civilization  offered  no  recompense 
to  the  few  inhabitants  of  the  gorge  for 
the  exodus  of  deer  and  bear  and  fish. 
It  passed  swiftly  far  above  them, 
seeming  to  traverse  the  very  sky. 
They  had  no  share  in  the  world ;  the 
freighted  trains  brought  them  noth 
ing — not  even  a  newspaper  wafted 
down  upon  the  wind  ;  the  wires  flashed 
no  word  to  them.  The  picturesque 
situation  of  the  two  or  three  little  log- 
houses  scattered  at  long  intervals  down 
the  ravine ;  the  crystal  clear  flow  of  a 
narrow,  deep  stream — merely  a  silver 
thread  as  seen  from  the  bridge  above ; 
the  grand  proportions  of  the  towering 
cliffs,  were  calculated  to  cultivate  the 
grace  of  imagination  in  the  brakemen, 
leaning  from  their  respective  platforms ; 
to  suggest  a  variation  in  the  Pullman 
conductor's  jaunty  formula,  "'Twould 
hurt  our  feelings  pretty  badly  to  fall 
over  there,  I  fancy,"  and  to  remind 

121 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

the  out-looking  passenger  of  the  utter 
loneliness  of  the  vast  wilds  penetrated 
by  the  railroad.  But  they  left  no 
speculations  behind  them.  The  ter 
rible  sense  of  the  inconceivable  width 
of  the  world  was  spared  the  simple- 
minded  denizens  of  the  woods.  The 
clanging,  crashing  trains  came  like  the 
mountain  storms,  no  one  knew  whence, 
and  went  no  one  knew  whither.  The 
universe  lay  between  the  rocky  walls 
of  the  ravine.  Even  this  narrow  stage 
had  its  drama. 

In  the  depths  of  the  chasm  spanned 
by  the  bridge  there  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  one  of  the  great  cliffs  a 
forlorn  little  log  hut,  so  precariously 
perched  on  the  ledgy  slope  that  it 
might  have  seemed  the  nest  of  some 
strange  bird  rather  than  a  human 
habitation.  The  huge  natural  column 
of  the  crag  rose  sheer  and  straight  two 
hundred  feet  above  it,  but  the  descent 

122 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

from  the  door,  though  sharp  and  steep, 
was  along  a  narrow  path  leading  in  zig 
zag  windings  amid  great  bowlders  and 
knolls  of  scraggy  earth,  pushing  their 
way  out  from  among  the  stones  that 
sought  to  bury  them,  and  fragments  of 
the  cliff  fallen  long  ago  and  covered 
with  soft  moss.  The  path  appeared 
barely  passable  for  man,  but  upon  it 
could  have  been  seen  the  imprint  of  a 
hoof,  and  beside  the  hut  was  a  little 
shanty,  from  the  rude  window  of  which 
protruded  a  horse's  head,  with  so  in 
terested  an  expression  of  countenance 
that  he  looked  as  if  he  were  assisting 
at  the  conversation  going  on  out-of- 
doors  this  mild  March  afternoon. 

"Ye  could  find  deer,  an*  bar,  an* 
sech,  easy  enough  ef  ye  would  go 
arter  'em,"  replied  the  young  hunt 
er's  mother,  as  she  sat  in  the  doorway 
knitting  a  yarn  sock.  "That  thar 
still-house  up  yander  ter  the  Ridge 
123 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

hev  skeered  off  the  deer  an'  bar  fur  ye 
worse' n  the  railroad  hev.  Ye  kin  git 
that  fur  an'  no  furder.  Ye  hev  done 
got  triflin'  an'  no  'count,  an'  nuthin' 
else  in  this  worl'  ails  ye, — nur  the  deer 
an'  bar,  nuther,"  she  concluded,  with 
true  maternal  candor. 

"Itwartole  ter  me,"  said  an  elderly 
man,  who  was  seated  in  a  rush-bot 
tomed  chair  outside  the  door,  and 
who,  although  a  visitor,  bore  a  lance 
in  this  domestic  controversy  with  much 
freedom  and  spirit,  "ez  how  ye  hed 
done  got  religion  up  hyar  ter  the  Bap- 
tis'  meetin' -house  the  last  revival  ez 
we  hed.  An'  I  s'posed  it  war  the 
truth." 

"I  war  convicted,"  replied  the 
young  fellow,  ambiguously,  still  lean 
ing  lazily  on  his  rifle.  He  was  a  strik 
ing  figure,  remarkable  for  a  massive 
proportion  and  muscular  development, 
and  yet  not  lacking  the  lithe,  elastic 
124 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

curves  characteristic  of  first  youth.  A 
dilapidated  old  hat  crowned  a  shock  of 
yellow  hair,  a  sunburned  face,  far- 
seeing  gray  eyes,  and  an  expression 
of  impenetrable  calm.  His  butternut 
suit  was  in  consonance  with  the  prom 
inent  ribs  of  his  horse,  the  poverty- 
stricken  aspect  of  the  place,  and  the 
sterile  soil  of  a  forlorn  turnip  patch 
which  embellished  the  slope  to  the 
water's  edge. 

"Convicted!'*  exclaimed  his  mother, 
scornfully.  "An'  sech  goin's-on 
sence !  Mark  never  hed  no  religion  to 
start  with." 

"What  did  ye  see  when  ye  war 
convicted?"  demanded  the  inquisitive 
guest,  who  spoke  upon  the  subject  of 
religion  with  the  authority  and  asperity 
of  an  expert. 

"I  never  seen  nuthin'  much."  Mark 
Yates  admitted  the  fact  reluctantly. 

"Then  ye  never  hed  no  religion," 
125 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

retorted  Joel  Ruggles.  "I  knows, 
'kase  I  hev  hed  a  power  o'  visions.  I 
hev  viewed  heaven  an*  hung  over  hell. ' ' 
He  solemnly  paused  to  accent  the 
effect  of  this  stupendous  revelation. 
There  had  lately  come  a  new  ele 
ment  into  the  simple  life  of  the  gorge, 
— a  force  infinitely  more  subtle  than 
that  potency  of  steam  which  was 
wont  to  flash  across  the  railroad 
bridge;  of  further  reaching  influences 
than  the  wide  divergences  of  the  civil 
ization  it  spread  in  its  swift  flight. 
Naught  could  resist  this  force  of  prac 
tical  religion  applied  to  the  workings 
of  daily  life.  The  new  preacher  that 
at  infrequent  intervals  visited  this  re 
tired  nook  had  wrought  changes  in  the 
methods  of  the  former  incumbent,  who 
had  long  ago  fallen  into  the  listless 
apathy  of  old  age,  and  now  was  dead. 
His  successor  came  like  a  whirlwind, 
sweeping  the  chaff  before  him  —  a 
126 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

humble  man,  ignorant,  poor  in  this 
world's  goods,  and  of  meager  physical 
strength.  It  was  in  vain  that  the 
irreverent  sought  to  bring  ridicule  upon 
him,  that  he  was  called  a  "skimpy 
saint"  in  reference  to  his  low  stature, 
"the  widow's  mite,"  a  sly  jest  at  the 
hero-worship  of  certain  elderly  relicts 
in  his  congregation,  a  "two-by-four 
text' '  to  illustrate  his  slim  proportions. 
He  was  armed  with  the  strength  of 
righteousness,  and  it  sufficed. 

It  was  much  resented  at  first  that  he 
carried  his  spiritual  supervision  into 
the  personal  affairs  of  those  of  his 
charge,  and  required  that  they  should 
make  these  conform  to  their  outward 
profession.  And  thus  old  feuds  must 
needs  be  patched  up,  old  enemies  for 
given,  restitution  made,  and  the  king 
dom  set  in  order  as  behooves  the 
domain  of  a  Prince  of  Peace.  The 
young  people  especially  were  greatly 
127 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

stirred,  and  Mark  Yates,  who  had 
never  hitherto  thought  much  of  such 
subjects,  had  experienced  an  awakening 
of  moral  resolve,  and  had  even  appeared 
one  day  at  the  mourners'  bench. 

Thus  he  had  once  gone  up  to  be 
prayed  for,  "convicted  of  sin,"  as  the 
phrase  goes  in  those  secluded  regions. 
But  the  sermons  were  few,  for  the  in 
tervals  were  long  between  the  visita 
tions  of  the  little  preacher,  and  Mark's 
conscience  had  not  learned  the  art  of 
holding  forth  with  persistence  and 
pertinence,  which  spiritual  eloquence 
(not  always  welcome)  is  soon  acquired 
by  a  receptive,  sensitive  temperament. 
Mark  was  cheerful,  light-hearted,  imag 
inative,  adaptable.  The  traits  of  the 
wilder,  ruder  element  of  the  district,  the 
hardy  courage,  the  physical  prowess, 
the  adventurous  escapades  appealed  to 
his  sense  of  the  picturesque  as  no 
merit  of  the  dull  domestic  boor,  content 
128 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

with  the  meager  agricultural  routine, 
tamed  by  the  endless  struggle  with 
work  and  unalterable  poverty,  could 
stir  him.  He  had  no  interest  in  defy 
ing  the  law  and  shared  none  of  the 
profits,  but  the  hair-breadth  escapes  of 
certain  illicit  distillers  hard  by,  their 
perpetual  jeopardy,  the  ingenuity  of 
their  wily  devices  to  evade  discovery 
by  the  revenue  officers  and  yet  sup 
ply  all  the  contiguous  region,  the 
cogency  of  their  arguments  as  to  the 
injustice  of  the  taxation  that  bore  so 
heavily  upon  the  small  manufacturer, 
their  moral  posture  of  resisting  and 
outwitting  oppression — all  furnished 
abundant  interest  to  a  mind  alert, 
capable,  and  otherwise  unoccupied. 

Not  so  blunt  were  his  moral  percep 
tions,  however,  that  he  did  not  secretly 
wince  when  old  Joel  Ruggles,  after 
meditating  silently,  chewing  his  quid 
of  tobacco,  reverted  from  the  detail  of 
129 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

the  supposed  spiritual  wonders,  which 
in  his  ignorance  he  fancied  he  had 
seen,  to  the  matter  in  hand : 

"Hain't  you-uns  hearn  'bout  the 
sermon  ez  the  preacher  hev  done 
preached  agin  that  thar  still  ? — he  called 
it  a  den  o'  'niquity." 

"I  hearn  tell  'bout'n  it  yander  ter 
the  still,"  replied  Mark,  calmly. 
"They  'lowed  thar  ez  they  hed  a  mind 
ter  pull  him  down  out'n  the  pulpit  fur 
his  outdaciousness,  'kase  they  war  all 
thar  ter  the  meetin' -house,  an*  he  seen 
'em,  an'  said  what  he  said  fur  them  ter 
hear."  He  paused,  a  trifle  uncomfort 
able  at  the  suggestion  of  violence. 
Then  reassuring  himself  by  a  mo 
ment's  reflection,  he  went  on  in  an  off 
hand  way,  "I  reckon  they  ain't  a-goin' 
ter  do  nuthin'  agin  him,  but  he  hed 
better  take  keer  how  he  jows  at  them 
still  folks.  They  air  a  hard-mouthed 
generation,  like  the  Bible  says,  an' 
130 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

they  hev  laid  off  ter  stop  that  thar 
talk  o'  his'n." 

"Did  ye  hear  'em  say  in'  what  they 
war  a-aimin'  ter  do?"  asked  Ruggles, 
keenly  inquisitive. 

"  'Tain't  fer  me  ter  tell  what  I  hearn 
whilst  visitin'  in  other  folkses'  houses," 
responded  the  young  fellow,  tartly. 
"But  I  never  hearn  'em  say  nuthin* 
'ceptin'  they  war  a-goin'  ter  try  ter 
stop  his  talk,"  he  added.  "I  tells  ye 
that  much  'kase  ye'll  be  a-thinkin'  I 
hearn  worse  ef  I  don't.  That  air  all 
I  hearn  'em  say  'bout'n  it.  An'  I 
reckon  they  don't  mean  nuthin',  but 
air  talkin'  big  whilst  mad  'bout'n  it. 
They  air  'bleeged  ter  know  thar  goin's- 
on  ain't  fitten  fur  church  members." 

"An*  ye  a-jowin'  'bout'n  a  hard- 
mouthed  generation,"  interposed  his 
mother,  indignantly.  "Ye're  one  of 
'em  yerself.  Thar  hain't  been  a  bite 
of  wild  meat  in  this  hyar  house  fur  a 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

month  an'  better.  Mark  hev'  mighty 
nigh  tucken  ter  live  at  the  still;  an' 
when  he  kin  git  hisself  up  to  the  p'int 
o'  goin'  a-huntin',  'pears  like  he  can't 
find  nuthin'  ter  shoot.  I  hev  hearn  a 
say  in'  ez  thar  is  a  use  fur  every  livin' 
thing,  an'  it  'pears  ter  me  ez  Mark's  use 
air  mos'ly  ter  waste  powder  an'  lead." 

Mark  received  these  sarcasms  with 
an  imperturbability  which  might  in 
some  degree  account  for  their  virulence 
and,  indeed,  Mrs.  Yates  often  averred 
that,  say  what  she  might,  she  could  not 
"move  that  thar  boy  no  more'n  the 
mounting." 

He  shifted  his  position  a  trifle,  still 
leaning,  however,  upon  the  rifle,  with 
his  clasped  hands  over  the  muzzle  and 
his  chin  resting  on  his  hands.  The 
quiet  radiance  of  a  smile  was  beginning 
to  dawn  in  his  clear  eyes  as  he  looked 
at  his  interlocutors,  and  he  spoke  with 
a  confidential  intonation: 
132 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

"The  las'  meetin'  but  two  ez  they 
hev  hed  up  yander  ter  the  church 
they  summonsed  them  thar  Brices  ter 
'count  fur  runnin'  of  a  still,  an*  a-gittin' 
drunk,  an*  sech,  an'  the  Brices  never 
come,  nor  tuk  no  notice  nor  nuthin*. 
An'  then  the  nex'  meetin'  they  tuk 
an'  turned  'em  out'n  the  church.  An* 
when  they  hearn  'bout  that  at  the  still, 
them  Brices — the  whole  lay-out — war 
pipin'  hot  'bout'n  it.  Thar  warn't 
nare  member  what  voted  fur  a-keepin' 
of  'em  in;  an'  that  stuck  in  'em,  too — 
all  thar  old  frien's  a-goin'  agin  'em!  I 
s'pose  'twar  right  ter  turn  'em  out," 
he  added,  after  a  reflective  pause, 
"though  thar  is  them  ez  war  a-votin' 
agin  them  Brices  ez  hev  drunk  a  pow 
erful  lot  o'  whisky  an'  sech  in  thar 
lifetime." 

"Thar  will  be  a  sight  less  whisky 
drunk  about  hyar  ef  that  small-sized 
preacher-man  kin  keep  up  the  holt  he 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

hev  tuk  on  temperance  sermons,"  said 
Mrs.  Yates  a  trifle  triumphantly.  Then 
with  a  clouding  brow:  "I  could  wish 
he  war  bigger.  I  ain't  faultin'  the 
ways  o'  Providence  in  nowise,  but  it 
do  'pear  ter  me  ez  one  David  and 
G'liath  war  enough  fur  the  tales  o'  reli 
gion  'thout  hevin'  our  own  skimpy 
leetle  shepherd  and  the  big  Philistines 
of  the  distillers  at  loggerheads — whenst 
flat  peebles  from  the  brook  would  be  a 
mighty  pore  dependence  agin  a  breech- 
loading  rifle.  G'Kath's  gun  war  more'n 
apt  ter  hev  been  jes'  a  old  muzzle- 
loader,  fur  them  war  the  times  afore  the 
war  fur  the  Union;  but  these  hyar 
moonshiners  always  hev  the  best  an* 
newest  shootin'-irons  that  Satan  kin 
devise — not  knowin'  when  some  o'  the 
raiders  o'  the  revenue  force  will  kem 
down  on  'em — an'  that  makes  a  man 
keen  ter  be  among  the  accepted  few  in 
the  new  quirks  o'  firearms.  A  mighty 
134 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

small  man  the  preacher-man  'pears  ter 
be!  If  it  war  the  will  o'  Providence 
I  could  wish  fur  a  few  more  pounds  o' 
Christian  pastor,  considering  the  size 
an'  weight  ez  hev  been  lavished  on 
them  distillers." 

"It  air  scandalous  fur  a  church 
member  ter  be  a  gittin'  drunk  an' 
foolin'  round  the  still-house  an'  sech, " 
said  Joel  Ruggles,  "an'  ef  ye  hed 
ever  hed  any  religion,  Mark,  ye'd  hev 
knowed  that  'thout  hevin'  ter  be 
told." 

"An'  it's  scandalous  fur  a  church 
member  to  drink  whisky  at  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Yates,  sharply,  knitting  off  her 
needle,  and  beginning  another  round. 
A  woman's  ideas  of  reform  are  always 
radical. 

Joel  Ruggles  did  not  eagerly  con 
cur  in  this  view  of  the  abstinence  ques 
tion  ;  he  said  nothing  in  reply. 

"Thar  hain't  sech  a  mighty  call  ter 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

drink  whisky  yander  ter  the  still," 
remarked  young  Yates,  irrelevantly, 
feeling  perhaps  the  need  of  a  plea  of 
defense.  "It  ain't  the  whisky  ez 
draws  me  thar.  The  gang  air  a-hang- 
in'  round  an'  a-talkin'  an*  a-laughin' 
an'  a-tellin'  tales  'bout  bar-huntin'  an' 
sech.  An'  thar's  the  grist  mill  a  haffen 
mile  an'  better  through  the  woods." 

"Thar's  bad  company  at  the  still, 
an'  it's  a  wild  beast  ez  hev  got  a  fang 
ez  bites  sharp  an'  deep,  an'  some  day 
ye'll  feel  it,  ez  sure  ez  ye're  a  born 
sinner,"  said  Mrs.  Yates,  looking  up 
solemnly  at  him  over  her  spectacles. 
"I  never  see  no  sense  in  men  a-drink- 
in'  of  whisky,"  she  continued,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  she  counted  her 
stitches.  "The  wild  critters  in  the 
woods  hev  got  more  reason  than  ter 
eat  an'  drink  what' 11  pizen  'em — but, 
law!  it  always  did  'pear  to  me  ez  they 
war  ahead  in  some  ways  of  the  men, 
136 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

what  kin  talk  an'  hev  got  the  hope  of 
salvation." 

This  thrust  was  neither  parried  nor 
returned.  Joel  Ruggles,  discreetly 
silent,  gazed  with  a  preoccupied  air  at 
the  swift  stream  flowing  far  below, 
beginning  to  darken  with  the  overhang 
ing  shadows  of  the  western  crags. 
And  Mark  still  leaned  his  chin  medita 
tively  on  his  hands,  and  his  hands  on 
the  muzzle  of  his  rifle,  in  an  attitude 
so  careless  that  an  unaccustomed  ob 
server  might  have  been  afraid  of  seeing 
the  piece  discharged  and  the  pictur 
esque  head  blown  to  atoms. 

Through  the  futility  of  much 
remonstrance  his  mother  had  lost  her 
patience — no  great  loss,  it  might  seem, 
for  in  her  mildest  days  she  had  never 
been  meek.  Poverty  and  age,  and  in 
addition  her  anxiety  concerning  a  son 
now  grown  to  manhood,  good  and 
kind  in  disposition,  but  whose  very 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

amiability  rendered  him  so  lax  in  his 
judgment  of  the  faults  of  others  as 
to  slacken  the  tension  of  his  judgment 
of  his  own  faults,  and  whose  stancher 
characteristics  were  manifested  only 
in  an  adamantine  obstinacy  to  her 
persuasion — all  were  ill-calculated  to 
improve  her  temper  and  render  her 
optimistic,  and  she  had  had  no 
training  in  the  wider  ways  of  life 
to  cultivate  tact  and  knowledge  of 
character  and  methods  of  influencing 
it.  Doubtless  the  "skimpy  saint" 
in  the  enlightenment  of  his  vocation 
would  have  approached  the  subject  of 
these  remonstrances  in  a  far  different 
spirit,  for  Mark  was  plastic  to  good 
suggestions,  easily  swayed,  and  had 
no  real  harm  in  him.  He  understood, 
too,  the  merit  and  grace  of  consis 
tency,  of  being  all  of  a  piece  with  his 
true  identity,  with  his  real  character, 
with  the  sterling  values  he  most  ap- 
138 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

preciated.  But  the  quality  that  ren 
dered  him  so  susceptible  to  good 
influences — his  adaptability — exposed 
him  equally  to  adverse  temptation. 
He  had  spoken  truly  when  he  had 
said  that  it  was  only  the  interest 
of  the  talk  of  the  moonshiners  and 
their  friends — stories  of  hunting  fierce 
animals  in  the  mountain  fastnesses, 
details  of  bloody  feuds  between 
neighboring  families  fought  out 
through  many  years  with  varying 
vicissitudes,  and  old-time  traditions 
of  the  vanished  Indian,  once  the 
master  of  all  the  forests  and  rocks 
and  rivers  of  these  ancient  wilds — 
and  not  the  drinking  of  whisky,  that 
allured  him;  far  less  the  painful  and 
often  disgusting  exhibitions  of  drunk 
enness  he  occasionally  witnessed  at 
the  still,  in  which  those  sufficiently 
sober  found  a  source  of  stupid 
mirth.  Afterward  it  seemed  to  him 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

strange  to  reflect  on  his  course. 
True  he  had  had  but  a  scanty  ex 
perience  of  life  and  the  world, 
and  the  parson's  reading  from 
the  Holy  Scriptures  was  his  only 
acquaintance  with  what  might  be 
termed  literature  or  learning  in  any 
form.  But  arguing  merely  from  what 
he  knew  he  risked  much.  From  the 
pages  of  the  Bible  he  had  learned  what 
the  leprosy  was,  and  what,  he  asked 
himself  in  later  years,  would  he  have 
thought  of  the  mental  balance  of  a  man 
who  frequented  the  society  of  a  leper 
for  the  sake  of  transitory  entertain 
ment  or  mirth  to  be  derived  from  his 
talk?  In  the  choice  stories  of  "bar" 
and  "Injuns,"  innocent  in  themselves, 
he  must  needs  risk  the  moral  contagion 
of  this  leprosy  of  the  soul. 

Nevertheless  he  was  intent  now  on 
escaping   from   his   mother   and    Joel 
Ruggles,  since  it  was  growing  late  and 
140 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

he  knew  the  cronies  would  soon  be 
gathered  around  the  big  copper  at 
the  still-house,  and  he  welcomed  the 
diversion  of  a  change  of  the  subject. 
It  had  fallen  upon  the  weather — the 
most  propitious  times  of  plowing  and 
planting;  an  earnest  confirmation  of 
the  popular  theory  that  to  bring  a 
crop  potatoes  and  other  tubers  must 
be  planted  in  the  dark  of  the  moon, 
and  leguminous  vegetables,  peas, 
beans,  etc.,  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Warned  by  the  lengthening  shadows, 
Joel  Ruggles  broke  from  the  pacific 
discussion  of  these  agricultural  themes, 
rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  went  within 
to  light  his  pipe  at  the  fire,  and  with 
this  companion  wended  his  way  down 
the  precipitous  slope,  then  along  the 
rocky  banks  of  the  stream  to  his  own 
little  home,  half  a  mile  or  so  up  its 
rushing  current. 

As  he  went  he  heard  Mark's  clear 
141 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

voice  lifted  in  song  further  down  the 
stream.  He  had  hardly  noted  when 
the  young  fellow  had  withdrawn  from 
the  conversation.  It  was  a  mounted 
shadow  that  he  saw  far  away  among 
the  leafy  shadows  of  the  oaks  and  the 
approaching  dusk.  Mark  had  slipped  off 
and  saddled  his  half-broken  horse,  Cock- 
leburr,  and  was  doubtless  on  his  way  to 
his  boon  companions  at  the  distillery. 
The  old  man  stood  still,  leaning 
on  his  stick,  as  he  silently  listened 
to  the  song,  the  sound  carrying  far 
on  the  placid  medium  of  the  water 
and  in  the  stillness  of  the  evening. 

"  O,  call  the  dogs— Yo  he!— Yo  ho! 
Boone  and  Ranger,  Wolf  an'  Beau, 
Little  Bob-tail  an'  Big  Dew-claw, 
Old  Bloody-Mouth  an'  Hanging  Jaw. 
Ye  hear  the  hawns?— Yo  he!— Yo  ho! 
They  all  are  blowin',  so  far  they  go, 
With  might  an'  main,  for  the  trail  is  fresh, 
A  big  bear's  track  in  the  aidge  o'the  bresh!" 

"Yo   he!    yo   ho!"    said    the  river 

142 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

faintly.  "Yo  he!  yo  ho!"  said  the 
rocks  more  faintly;  and  fainter  still 
from  the  vague  darkness  came  an  echo 
so  slight  that  it  seemed  as  near  akin  to 
silence  as  to  sound,  barely  impinging 
upon  the  air.  " Yo  he!  yo  ho!"  it 
murmured. 

But  old  Joel  Ruggles,  standing 
and  listening,  silently  shook  his  head 
and  said  nothing. 

"Yo  he!  yoho!"  sung  Mark,  further 
away,  and  the  echoes  of  his  boyish 
voice  still  rang  vibrant  and  clear. 

Then  there  was  no  sound  but  the 
stir  of  the  river  and  the  clang  of  the 
iron-shod  hoofs  of  Cockleburr,  striking 
the  stones  in  the  rocky  bridle-path. 
The  flint  gave  out  a  flash  of  light,  the 
yellow  spark  glimmering  for  an  instant, 
visible  in  the  purple  dusk  with  a  transi 
tory  flicker  like  a  firefly. 

And  old  Joel  Ruggles  once  more 
shook  his  head. 


CHAPTER  II 

Far  away  in  a  dim  recess  of  the  deep 
woods,  on  the  summit  of  the  ridge, 
amidst  crags  and  chasms  and  almost 
inaccessible  steeps,  the  shadows  had 
gathered  about  a  dismal  little  log  hut 
of  one  room — like  all  the  other  dismal 
little  hovels  of  the  mountain,  save  that 
in  front  of  the  door  the  grass  was 
worn  away  from  a  wide  space  by  the 
frequent  tread  of  many  feet;  a  preter- 
naturally  large  wood-pile  was  visible 
under  a  frail  shelter  in  the  rear  of  the 
house;  from  the  chimney  a  dense 
smoke  rose  in  a  heavy  column;  and 
the  winds  that  rushed  past  it  carried 
on  their  breath  an  alcoholic  aroma. 
But  for  these  points  of  dissimilarity 
and  its  peculiarly  secluded  situation, 
i44 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

Mark  Yates,  dismounting  from  his 
restive  steed,  might  have  been  en 
tering  his  mother's  dwelling.  The 
opening  door  shed  no  glare  of  firelight 
out  into  the  deepening  gloom  of  the 
dusk.  It  was  very  warm  within,  how 
ever — almost  too  warm  for  comfort; 
but  the  shutters  of  the  glassless  win 
dow  were  tightly  barred,  and  the  usual 
chinks  of  log-house  architecture  were 
effectually  closed  with  clay.  The  dark 
ness  of  the  room  was  accented  rather 
than  dispelled  by  a  flickering  tallow 
dip  stuck  in  an  empty  bottle  in  default 
of  a  candlestick,  and  there  was  an  all- 
pervading  and  potent  odor  of  spirits. 
The  salient  feature  of  the  scene  was  a 
stone  furnace,  from  the  closed  door  of 
which  there  flashed  now  and  then  a 
slender  thread  of  brilliant  light.  A 
great  copper  still  rose  from  it,  and  a 
protruding  spiral  tube  gracefully  me 
andered  away  in  the  darkness  through 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

the  cool  waters  of  the  refrigerator  to 
the  receiver  of  its  precious  condensed 
vapors. 

There  were  four  jeans-clad  moun 
taineers  seated  in  the  gloomy  twilight 
of  this  apartment;  and  the  stories  of 
"bar-huntin*  an'  sech"  must  have  been 
very  jewels  of  discourse  to  prove  so 
alluring,  as  they  could  certainly  derive 
no  brilliancy  from  their  unique  but 
somber  setting. 

"Hy're,  Mark!  Come  in,  come 
in,"  was  the  hospitable  insistence 
which  greeted  young  Yates. 

"Hev  a  cheer,"  said  Aaron  Brice, 
the  eldest  of  the  party,  bringing  out 
from  the  darkness  a  chair  and  placing 
it  in  the  feeble  twinkle  of  the  tallow  dip. 

1  'Take  a  drink,  Mark,"  said  another 
of  the  men,  producing  a  broken-nosed 
pitcher  of  ardent  liquor.  But  notwith 
standing  this  effusive  hospitality,  which 
was  very  usual  at  the  still-house,  Mark 
146 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

Yates  had  an  uncomfortable  impression 
that  he  had  interrupted  an  important 
conference,  and  that  his  visit  was 
badly  timed.  The  conversation  that 
ensued  was  labored,  and  hosts  and 
guest  were  a  trifle  ill  at  ease.  Fre 
quent  pauses  occurred,  broken  only  by 
the  sound  of  the  furnace  fire,  the  boil 
ing  and  bubbling  within  the  still,  the 
gurgle  of  the  water  through  its  trough, 
that  led  it  down  from  a  spring  on  the 
hill  behind  the  house  to  the  refriger 
ator,  the  constant  dripping  of  the 
"doublings"  from  the  worm  into  the 
keg  below.  Now  and  then  one  of 
the  brothers  hummed  a  catch  which 
ran  thus: — 

"O,  Eve,  she  gathered  the  pippins, 
Adam  did  the  pomace  make; 
When  the  brandy  told  upon  'em, 
They  accused  the  leetle  snake! " 

Another  thoughtfully  snuffed  the  tal 
low  dip,  which  for  a  few  moments 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

burned  with  a  brighter,  more  cheerful 
light,  then  fell  into  a  tearful  despond 
ency  and  bade  fair  to  weep  itself  away. 
Outside  the  little  house  the  black 
night  had  fallen,  and  the  wind  was 
raging  among  the  trees.  All  the  stars 
seemed  in  motion,  flying  to  board  a 
fleet  of  flaky  white  clouds  that  were 
crossing  the  sky  under  full  sail.  The 
moon,  a  spherical  shadow  with  a  cres 
cent  of  burnished  silver,  was  speeding 
toward  the  west ;  not  a  gleam  fell  from 
its  disk  upon  the  swaying,  leafless 
trees — it  seemed  only  to  make  palpable 
the  impenetrable  gloom  that  immersed 
the  earth.  The  air  had  grown  keen 
and  cold,  and  it  rushed  in  at  the  door 
as  it  was  opened  with  a  wintry  blast. 
A  man  entered,  with  the  slow,  loung 
ing  motion  peculiar  to  the  mountain 
eers,  bearing  in  his  hand  a  jug  of  jovial 
aspect.  The  four  Brices  looked  up 
from  under  their  heavy  brows  with 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

sharp  scrutiny  to  discern  among  the 
deep  shadows  cast  by  the  tallow  dip 
who  the  newcomer  might  be.  Their 
eyes  returned  to  gaze  with  an  affected 
preoccupation  upon  the  still,  and  in 
this  significant  hush  the  ignored  visitor 
stood  surprised  and  abashed  on  the 
threshold.  The  cold  inrushing  moun 
tain  wind,  streaming  like  a  jet  of  sea- 
water  through  the  open  door,  was 
rapidly  lowering  the  temperature  of 
the  room.  This  contemptuous  silence 
was  too  fraught  with  discomfort  to  be 
maintained. 

"Ef  ye  air  a-comin'  in,"  said  Aaron 
Brice,  ungraciously,  "come  along  in. 
An*  ef  ye  air  a-goin'  out  go  'long. 
Anyway,  jes'  ez  ye  choose,  ef  ye'll 
shet  that  thar  door,  ez  I  don't  see  ez 
ye  hev  any  call  ter  hold  open." 

Thus  adjured  the  intruder  closed  the 
door,  placed  the  jug  on  the  floor,  and 
looked  about  with  an  embarrassed 
149 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

hesitation  of  manner.  The  flare  from 
the  furnace,  which  Aaron  Brice  had 
opened  to  pile  in  fresh  wood,  illumined 
the  newcomer's  face  and  long,  loose- 
jointed  figure  and  showed  the  semi 
circle  of  mountaineers  seated  in  their 
rush-bottomed  chairs  about  the  still. 
None  of  them  spoke.  Never  before 
since  the  still-house  was  built  had  a 
visitor  stood  upon  the  puncheon  floor 
that  one  of  the  hospitable  Brices  did 
not  scuttle  for  a  chair,  that  the  dip 
was  not  eagerly  snuffed  in  the  vain 
hope  of  irradiating  the  guest,  that  the 
genial  though  mutilated  pitcher  filled 
with  whisky  was  not  ungrudgingly 
presented.  No  chair  was  offered  now, 
and  the  broken-nosed  pitcher  with  its 
ardent  contents  was  motionless  on  the 
head  of  a  barrel.  It  was  a  strange 
change,  and  as  the  broad  red  glare  fell 
on  their  stolid  faces  and  blankly  inex 
pressive  attitudes  the  guest  looked  from 
150 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

one  to  the  other  with  an  increasing  sur 
prise  and  a  rising  dismay.  The  light  was 
full  for  a  moment  upon  Mark  Yates's 
shock  of  yellow  hair,  gray  eyes,  and 
muscular,  well-knit  figure,  as  he,  too, 
sat  mute  among  his  hosts.  He  was 
not  to  be  mistaken,  and  once  seen 
was  not  easily  forgotten.  The  next 
instant  the  furnace  door  clashed,  and 
the  room  fell  back  into  its  habitual 
gloom.  One  might  note  only  the 
gurgle  of  the  spring  water — telling 
of  the  wonders  of  the  rock-barricaded 
earth  below  and  the  reflected  glories  of 
the  sky  above — only  the  hilarious  song 
of  the  still,  the  continuous  trickle  from 
the  worm,  the  all-pervading  spirituous 
odors,  and  the  shadowy  outlines  of  the 
massive  figures  of  the  mountaineers. 

The  Brices  evidently  could  not  be 
relied  upon  to  break  the  awkward 
silence.  The  newcomer,  mustering 
heart  of  grace,  took  up  his  testimony 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

in  a  languid  nasal  drawl,  trying  to  speak 
and  to  appear  as  if  he  had  noticed 
nothing  remarkable  in  his  reception. 

"I  hev  come,  Aaron,"  he  said,  "ter 
git  another  two  gallons  o'  that  thar 
whisky  ez  I  hed  from  you-uns,  an'  I 
hev  brung  the  balance  of  the  money 
I  owed  ye  on  that,  an*  enough  ter  pay 
for  the  jugful,  too.  Hyar  is  a  haffen 
dollar  fur  the  old  score,  an' — " 

' 'That  thar  eends  it,"  said  Aaron, 
pocketing  the  tendered  fifty  cents. 
"We  air  even,  an'  ye'll  git  no  more 
whisky  from  hyar,  Mose  Carter." 

"Wha — what  did  ye  say,  Aaron? 
I  hain't  got  the  rights  'zactly  o'  what 
ye  said."  And  Carter  peered  in  great 
amaze  through  the  gloom  at  his  host, 
who  was  carefully  filling  a  pipe.  As 
Aaron  stooped  to  get  a  coal  from  the 
furnace  one  of  the  others  spoke. 

"He  said  ez  ye'll  git  no  more  whisky 
from  hyar.     An'  it  air  a  true  word." 
152 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

The  flare  from  the  furnace  again 
momentarily  illumined  the  room,  and 
as  the  door  clashed  it  again  fell  back 
into  the  uncertain  shadow. 

'  *  That  is  what  I  tole  ye, ' '  said  Aaron, 
reseating  himself  and  puffing  his  pipe 
into  a  strong  glow,  "an'  ef  ye  hain't 
a-onderstandin'  of  it  yit  I'll  say  it 
agin — ye  an'  the  rest  of  yer  tribe  will 
git  no  more  liquor  from  hyar. " 

"An*  what's  the  reason  I  hain't 
a-goin'  ter  get  no  more  liquor  from 
hyar?"  demanded  Moses  Carter  in 
virtuous  indignation.  "Hain't  I  been 
ez  good  pay  ez  any  man  down  this 
hyar  gorge  an'  the  whole  mounting 
atop  o'  that?  Look-a  hyar,  Aaron 
Brice,  ye  ain't  a-goin'  ter  try  ter  pur- 
tend  ez  I  don't  pay  fur  the  liquor  ez  I 
gits  hyar — an'  you-uns  an'  me  done 
been  a-tradin'  tergither  peaceable-like 
fur  nigh  on  ter  ten  solid  year." 

"An'  then  ye  squar'  round  an*  gits 
i53 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

me  an'  my  brothers  a-turned  out'n  the 
church  fur  runnin'  of  a  still  whar  ye 
gits  yer  whisky  from.  Good  pay  or 
bad  pay,  it's  all  the  same  ter  me." 

"I  never  gin  my  vote  fur  a-turnin' 
of  ye  out  'kase  of  ye  a-runnin'  of  a 
still."  Moses  Carter  trembled  in  his 
eager  anxiety  to  discriminate  the 
grounds  upon  which  he  had  cast  his  bal 
lot.  "It  war  fur  a-gittin'  drunk  an'  a- 
stayin'  drunk,  ez  ye  mos'ly  air  a-doin — 
an'  ye  will  'low  yerself,  Aaron,  ez  that 
thar  air  a  true  word.  I  don't  see  no 
harm  in  a-runnin'  of  a  still  an'  a-drinkin' 
some,  but  not  ter  hurt.  It  air  this 
hyar  gittin'  drunk  constant  ez  riles 
me." 

"Mose  Carter,"  said  the  youngest 
of  the  Brice  brothers,  striking  suddenly 
into  the  conversation,  "ye  air  a  liar, 
an'  ye  knows  it!"  He  was  a  wiry, 
active  man  of  twenty-five  years;  he 
spoke  in  an  authoritative  high  key,  and 
154 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

his  voice  seemed  to  split  the  air  like  a 
knife.  His  mind  was  as  wiry  as  his 
body,  and  it  was  generally  understood 
on  Jolton's  Ridge  that  he  was  the 
power  behind  the  throne  of  which 
Aaron,  the  eldest,  wielded  the  unmean 
ing  scepter;  he,  however,  remained 
decorously  in  the  background,  for 
among  the  humble  mountaineers  the 
lordly  rights  of  primogeniture  are  held 
in  rigorous  veneration,  and  it  would 
have  ill-beseemed  a  younger  scion  of 
the  house  to  openly  take  precedence 
of  the  elder.  His  Christian  name  was 
John,  but  it  had  been  forgotten  or  dis 
regarded  by  all  but  his  brothers  in  the 
title  conferred  upon  him  by  his  com 
rades  of  the  mountain  wilds.  Panther 
Brice — or  "Painter/'  for  thus  the 
animal  is  called  in  the  vernacular  of  the 
region — was  known  to  run  the  still,  to 
shape  the  policy  of  the  family,  to  be  a 
self-constituted  treasurer  and  disburser 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

of  the  common  fund,  to  own  the  very 
souls  of  his  unresisting  elder  brothers. 
He  had  elected,  however,  in  the  inter 
ests  of  decorum,  that  these  circum 
stances  should  be  sedulously  ignored. 
Aaron  invariably  appeared  as  spokes 
man,  and  the  mountaineers  at  large  all 
fell  under  the  influence  of  a  dominant 
mind  and  acquiesced  in  the  solemn 
sham.  The  Panther  seldom  took  part 
even  in  casual  discussions  of  any  vexed 
question,  reserving  his  opinions  to  dic 
tate  as  laws  to  his  brothers  in  private; 
and  a  sensation  stirred  the  coterie  when 
his  voice,  that  had  a  knack  of  finding 
and  thrilling  every  sensitive  nerve  in 
his  hearer's  body,  jarred  the  air. 

"I  hev  seen  ye,  Mose  Carter,"  he 
continued,  "in  this  hyar  very  still- 
house  ez  drunk  ez  a  fraish  biled  owl. 
Ye  hev  laid  on  this  hyar  floor  too  drunk 
ter  move  hand  or  foot  all  night  an' 
haffen  the  nex'  day  at  one  spree.  I 
156 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

hev  seen  ye',  an'  so  hev  plenty  o' 
other  folks.  An'  ef  ye  comes  hyar 
a-jowin'  so  sanctified  'bout'n  folks 
a-gittin'  drunk,  I'll  turn  ye  out'n  this 
hyar  still-house  fur  tellin'  of  lies." 

He  paused  as  abruptly  as  he  had 
spoken ;  but  before  Moses  Carter  could 
collect  his  slow  faculties  he  had  re 
sumed.  "It  'pears  powerful  comical 
ter  me  ter  hear  this  hyar  Baptis'  church 
a-settin'  of  itself  up  so  stiff  fur  tem- 
p' ranee,  'kase  thar  air  an  old  sayin' — 
an'  I  b'lieves  it — ez  the  Presbyterians 
holler — 'What  is  ter  be  will  be! — even 
ef  it  won't  be!'  an*  the  Methodies  hol 
ler,  'Fire!  fire!  fire!  Brimstun'  an'  blue 
blazes!' — but  the  Bapties  holler, 
'  Water !  water !  water !  with  a  leetle  drap 
o*  whisky  in  it !'  But  ye  an'  yer  church 
'11  be  dry  enough  arter  this;  thar'll  be 
less  liquor  drunk  'mongst  ye'n  ever 
hev  been  afore,  'kase  ye  air  all  too 
cussed  stingy  ter  pay  five  cents  extry  a 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

quart  like  ye'll  hev  ter  do  at  Joe  Gil- 
ligan's  store  down  yander  ter  the  Set- 
tlemint.  Fur  nare  one  o'  them  sancti 
fied  church  brethren' 11  git  another 
drap  o'  liquor  hyar,  whar  it  hev  always 
been  so  powerful  cheap  an'  handy." 

"The  dryer  ez  ye  kin  make  the 
church  the  better  ye'll  please  the 
pa'son.  He  lays  off  a  reg'lar  temper 
ance  drought  fur  them  ez  kin  foller 
arter  his  words.  I  be  a-tryin'  ter 
mend  my  ways,"  Moses  Carter  droned 
with  a  long,  sanctimonious  face, 
"but — "  he  hesitated,  "the  sperit  is 
willin',  but  the  flesh  is  weak — the  flesh 
is  weak!" 

"I'll  be  bound  no  sperits  air  weak 
ez  ye  hev  ennything  ter  do  with,  least 
wise  swaller, "  said  the  Panther,  with 
a  quick  snap. 

"He  is  hyar  in  the  mounting  ter- 
night,  the  pa'son,"  resumed  Mose 
Carter,  with  that  effort,  always  ill- 
158 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

starred,  to  affect  to  perceive  naught 
amiss  when  a  friend  is  sullenly  bellig 
erent  ;  he  preserved  the  indifferent  tone 
of  one  retailing  casual  gossip.  ''The 
pa'son  hev  laid  off  ter  spen'  the  better 
part  o'  the  night  in  prayer  and  wres- 
tlin'  speritchully  in  the  church-house 
agin  his  sermon  ter-morrer,  it  bein' 
the  blessed  Sabbath.  He  'lowed  he 
would  be  more  sole  and  alone  thar 
than  at  old  man  Allen's  house,  whar 
he  be  puttin'  up  fur  the  night,  'kase  at 
old  man  Allen's  they  hev  seben  gran- 
chil'ren  an'  only  one  room,  barrin'  the 
roof-room.  Thar  be  a  heap  o*  onre- 
generate  human  natur'  in  them  seben 
Allen  gran'chil'ren.  Thar  ain't  no  use 
I  reckon  in  try  in'  ter  awake  old  man 
Allen  ter  a  sense  of  sin  an'  the  awful 
oncertainty  of  life  by  talkin'  ter  him  o' 
the  silence  an'  solitude  o'  the  grave! 
Kee,  kee!"  he  laughed.  But  he 
laughed  alone. 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

"Wrestlin'J"  The  pa'son  a- wrest  - 
lin' !  I  could  throw  him  over  my 
head!  It's  well  fur  him  his  wrestlin's 
air  only  in  prayer!"  exclaimed  Painter, 
with  scorn.  "The  still  will  holp  on 
the  cause  o*  temp'rance  more'n  that 
thar  little  long-tongued  preacher  an' 
all  his  sermons.  Raisin*  the  tar'ff  on 
the  drink  will  stop  it.  Ye 're  all  so 
dad-burned  stingy." 

"Jes*  ez  ye  choose,"  said  Moses 
Carter,  taking  up  his  empty  jug. 
"'Tain't  nuthin'  s'prisin'  ter  me  ter 
hear  ye  a-growlin'  an'  a-goin'  this  hyar 
way,  Painter — ye  always  war  more  like 
a  wild  beast  nor  a  man,  anyhow.  But 
it  do  'stonish  me  some  ez  Aaron  an' 
the  t'other  boys  air  a-goin'  ter  let  ye 
cut  'em  out'n  a-sellin*  of  liquor  ter 
the  whole  kentry  mighty  nigh,  'kase 
the  brethren  don't  want  a  sodden 
drunkard,  like  ye  air,  in  the  church 
a-communin*  with  the  saints." 
160 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S   RIDGE 

"Ye  needn't  sorrow  fur  Aaron," 
said  Panther  Brice,  with  a  sneer  that 
showed  his  teeth  much  as  a  snarl  might 
have  done,  "nor  fur  the  t'other  boys 
nuther.  We  kin  sell  all  the  whisky 
ez  we  kin  make  ter  Joe  Gilligan,  an' 
the  folks  yander  ter — ter — no  matter 
whar — "  he  broke  off  with  a  sudden 
look  of  caution  as  if  he  had  caught 
himself  in  an  imminent  disclosure. 
"We  kin  sell  it  'thout  losin'  nare 
cent,  fur  we  hev  always  axed  the  same 
price  by  the  gallon  ez  by  the  bar'l.  So 
Aaron  ain't  a  needin'  of  yer  sorrow." 

"Ye  air  the  spitefullest  little  painter 
ez  ever  seen  this  hyar  worl' , ' '  exclaimed 
Moses  Carter,  exasperated  by  the  sym 
metry  of  his  enemy's  financial  scheme. 
"Waal — waal,  prayer  may  bring  ye 
light.  Prayer  is  a  powerful  tool.  The 
pa'son  b'lieves  in  its  power.  He  is 
right  now  up  yander  in  the  church- 
house,  fur  I  seen  the  light,  an'  I 
161 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

hearn  his  voice   lifted   in  prayer  ez  I 
kem  by." 

The  four  brothers  glanced  at  one  an 
other  with  hot,  wild  eyes.  They  had 
reason  to  suspect  that  they  were  them 
selves  the  subject  of  the  parson's  sup 
plications,  and  they  resented  this  as  a 
liberty.  They  had  prized  their  standing 
in  the  church  not  because  they  were 
religious,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the 
word,  but  from  a  realization  of  its 
social  value.  In  these  primitive  regions 
the  sustaining  of  a  reputation  for  spe 
cial  piety  is  a  sort  of  social  distinction 
and  a  guarantee  of  a  certain  position. 
The  moonshiners  neither  knew  nor 
cared  what  true  religion  might  be. 
To  obey  its  precepts  or  to  inconven 
ience  themselves  with  its  restraints, 
was  alike  far  from  their  intention. 
They  had  received  with  boundless 
amazement  the  first  intimation  that 
the  personal  and  practical  religion 
162 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

which  the  "skimpy  saint"  had  brought 
into  the  gorge  might  consistently  inter 
fere  with  the  liquor  trade,  the  illicit 
distilling  of  whisky,  and  the  unlimited 
imbibing  thereof  by  themselves  and 
the  sottish  company  that  frequented 
the  still-house.  They  had  laughed  at 
his  temperance  sermons  and  ridiculing 
his  warnings  had  treated  the  whole 
onslaught  as  a  trifle,  a  matter  of 
polemical  theory,  in  the  nature  of 
things  transitory,  and  had  expected  it 
to  wear  out  as  similar  spasms  of  right 
eousness  often  do — more's  the  pity! 
Then  they  would  settle  down  to  con 
tinue  to  furnish  spirituous  comfort  to 
the  congregation,  while  the  "skimpy 
saint"  ministered  to  their  spiritual 
needs.  The  warlike  little  parson, 
however,  had  steadily  advanced  his 
parallels,  and  from  time  to  time  had 
driven  the  distillers  from  one  subter 
fuge  to  another,  till  at  last,  although 
163 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

they  were  well  off  in  this  world's  goods 
— rich  men,  according  to  the  appraise 
ment  of  the  gorge — they  were  literally 
turned  out  of  the  church,  and  had  be 
come  a  public  example,  and  they  felt 
that  they  had  experienced  the  most 
unexpected  and  disastrous  catastrophe 
possible  in  nature. 

They  were  stunned  that  so  small  a 
man  had  done  this  thing,  a  man,  so 
poor,  so  weak,  so  dependent  for  his 
bread,  his  position,  his  every  worldly 
need,  on  the  favor  of  the  influential 
members  of  his  scattered  congrega 
tions.  It  had  placed  them  in  their  true 
position  before  their  compeers.  It  had 
reduced  their  bluster  and  boastfulness. 
It  had  made  them  seem  very  small  to 
themselves,  and  still  smaller,  they 
feared,  in  the  estimation  of  others. 

Moses  Carter  —  himself  no  shining 
light,  indeed  a  very  feebly  glimmering 
luminary  in  the  congregation — looked 
164 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

from  one  to  the  other  of  their  aghast 
indignant  faces  with  a  ready  relish  of 
the  situation,  and  said,  with  a  grin: 

"I  reckon,  Painter,  ef  the  truth  war 
plain,  ye'd  ruther  hev  all  the  gorge 
ter  know  ez  the  pa'son  war  a-spreadin* 
the  fac's  about  this  hyar  still  afore  a 
United  States  marshal  than  afore  the 
throne  o'  grace,  like  he  be  a-doin'  of 
right  now." 

The  Panther  rose  with  a  quick,  lithe 
motion,  stretched  out  his  hand  to 
the  head  of  a  barrel  near  by,  and  the 
thread  of  light  from  the  closed  furnace 
door  showed  the  glitter  of  steel.  He 
came  forward  a  few  steps,  walking 
with  a  certain  sinewy  grace  and  bran 
dishing  a  heavy  knife,  his  furious  eyes 
gleaming  with  a  strange  green  bril 
liance,  all  the  more  distinct  in  the  half- 
darkened  room.  Then  he  paused,  as 
with  a  new  thought.  "I  won't  tech 
ye  now,"  he  said,  with  a  snarl,  "but 
165 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

arter  a  while  I'll  jes'  make  ye  'low  ez 
that  thar  church  o'  yourn  air  safer 
with  me  in  it  nor  it  air  with  me  out'n 
it.  An'  then  we'll  count  it  even." 
He  ceased  speaking  suddenly;  cooler 
now,  and  with  an  expression  of  vexa 
tion  upon  his  sharp  features — perhaps 
he  repented  his  hasty  threat  and  his 
self-betrayal.  After  a  moment  he 
went  on,  but  with  less  virulence  of 
manner  than  before.  "Ye  kin  take 
that  thar  empty  jug  o'  yourn  an'  kerry 
it  away  empty.  An'  ye  kin  take  yer 
great  hulking  stack  o'  bones  along 
with  it,  an*  thank  yer  stars  ez  none  of 
'em  air  bruken.  Ye  air  the  fust  man 
ever  turned  empty  out'n  this  hyar 
still-house,  an'  I  pray  God  ez  ye  may 
be  the  las',  'kase  I  don't  want  no  sech 
wuthless  cattle  a-hangin'  round  hyar." 
"I  ain't  a-quarrelin*  with  hevin'  ter 
go,"  retorted  Carter,  with  asperity. 
"I  never  sot  much  store  by  comin' 
166 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

hyar  nohow,  'ceptin'  Aaron  an'  me, 
we  war  toler'ble  frien'ly  fur  a  good 
many  year.  This  hyar  still-house 
always  reminded  me  sorter  o'  hell,  any 
how — whar  the  worm  dieth  not  an' 
the  fire  is  not  quenched." 

With  this  Parthian  dart  he  left  the 
room,  closing  the  door  after  him,  and 
presently  the  dull  thud  of  his  horse's 
hoofs  was  borne  to  the  ears  of  the 
party  within,  again  seated  in  a  semi 
circle  about  the  furnace. 


167 


CHAPTER  III 

After  a  few  moments  of  vexed  cogi 
tation  Aaron  broke  the  silence,  keep 
ing,  however,  a  politic  curb  on  his 
speech.  "  'Pears  terme,  John,  ez  how 
mebbe  'twould  hev  done  better  ef  ye 
hedn't  said  that  thar  ez  ye  spoke 
'bout'n  the  church-house." 

"Hold  yer  jaw!"  returned  the  Pan 
ther,  fiercely.  "Who  larned  ye  ter 
jedge  o'  my  words?  An'  it  don't  make 
no  differ  nohow.  I  done  tole  him 
nuthin'  'bout'n  the  church-house  ez 
the  whole  Ridge  won't  say  arterward, 
any  way  ez  ye  kin  fix  it." 

If  Mark  Yates  had  found  himself 
suddenly  in  close  proximity  to  a  real 
panther  he  could  hardly  have  felt  more 
168 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

uncomfortable  than  these  half-covert 
suggestions  rendered  him.  He  shrank 
from  dwelling  upon  what  they  seemed 
to  portend,  and  he  was  anxious  to  hear 
no  more.  The  recollection  of  sundry 
maternal  warnings  concerning  the  evils, 
moral  and  temporal,  incident  upon 
keeping  bad  company,  came  on  him 
with  a  crushing  weight,  and  trans 
formed  the  aspect  of  the  fascinating 
still-house  into  a  close  resemblance  to 
another  locality  of  worm  and  fire,  to 
which  the  baffled  Carter  had  referred. 
He  was  desirous  of  going,  but  feared 
that  so  early  a  departure  just  at  this 
critical  juncture  might  be  interpreted 
by  his  entertainers  as  a  sign  of  distrust 
and  a  disposition  to  stand  aloof  when 
they  were  deserted  by  their  other 
friends.  And  yet  he  knew,  as  well  as 
if  they  had  told  him,  that  his  arrival 
had  interrupted  some  important  dis 
cussion  of  the  plot  they  were  laying, 
169 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

and  they  only  waited  his  exit  to  renew 
their  debate. 

While  these  antagonistic  emotions 
swayed  him,  he  sat  with  the  others  in 
meditative  silence,  gazing  blankly  at 
the  pleasing  rotundity  of  the  dense 
shadow  which  he  knew  was  the  "cop 
per,"  and  listening  to  the  frantic 
dance  and  roistering  melody  of  its 
bubbling,  boiling,  surging  contents, 
to  the  monotonous  trickling  of  the 
liquor  falling  from  the  worm,  to  the 
gentle  cooing  of  the  rill  of  clear 
spring  water.  The  idea  of  pleasure 
suggested  by  the  very  sight  of  the 
place  had  given  way  as  more  serious 
thoughts  and  fears  crowded  in,  and  his 
boyish  liking  for  these  men  who  pos 
sessed  that  deadly  fascination  for 
youth  and  inexperience, — the  reputa 
tion  of  being  wild, — was  fast  changing 
to  aversion.  He  still  entertained  a 
strong  sympathy  for  those  fierce  quali- 
170 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

ties  which  gave  so  vivid  an  interest 
to  the  stirring  accounts  of  struggles 
with  wolves  and  wild  cats,  bears  and 
panthers,  and  to  the  histories  of  bitter 
feuds  between  human  enemies,  in  the 
bloody  sequel  of  which,  however,  the 
brutality  of  the  deed  often  vied  with  its 
prowess;  but  this  fashion  of  squaring 
off,  metaphorically  speaking,  at  the 
preacher,  and  the  strange  insinuations 
of  sacrilegious  injury  to  the  church — 
the  beloved  church,  so  hardly  won  from 
the  wilderness,  representing  the  rich 
gifts  of  the  very  poor,  their  time,  their 
labor,  their  love,  their  prayers — this 
struck  every  chord  of  conservatism  in 
his  nature. 

There  had  never  before  been  a 
church  building  in  this  vicinity ;  "  sum 
mer  preachin'  "  under  the  forest  oaks 
had  sufficed,  with  sometimes  at  long 
intervals  a  funeral  sermon  at  the 
house  of  a  neighbor.  But  in  response 
171 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

to  that  strenuous  cry,  "Be  up  aud 
doing/'  and  in  acquiescence  with  the 
sharp  admonition  that  religion  does 
not  consist  in  singing  sleepy  hymns  in 
a  comfortable  chimney-corner,  the 
whole  countryside  had  roused  itself  to 
the  privilege  of  the  work  nearest  its 
hand.  Practical  Christianity  first  de 
veloped  at  the  saw-mill.  The  great 
logs,  seasoned  lumber  from  the  forest, 
were  offered  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  glory 
of  God,  and  as  the  word  went  around, 
Mark  Yates,  always  alert,  was  among 
the  first  of  the  groups  that  came  and 
stood  and  watched  the  gleaming  steel 
striking  into  the  fine  white  fibers  of 
the  wood  —  the  beginnings  of  the 
"  church-house" — while  the  dark,  clear 
water  reflected  the  great  beams  and 
roof  of  the  mill,  and  the  sibilant  whiz 
zing  of  the  simple  machinery  seemed, 
with  the  knowledge  of  the  consecrated 
nature  of  its  work,  an  harmonious  un- 
172 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

dertone  to  the  hymning  of  the  pines, 
and  the  gladsome  rushing  of  the  winds, 
and  the  subdued  ecstasies  of  all  the 
lapsing  currents  of  the  stream. 

Mark  had  looked  on  drearily.  His 
spirit,  awakened  by  the  clarion  call  of 
duty,  fretted  and  revolted  at  the  re 
straints  of  his  lack  of  means.  He 
could  do  naught.  It  was  the  privilege 
of  others  to  prepare  the  lumber.  It 
seemed  that  even  inanimate  nature 
had  its  share  in  building  the  church — 
the  earth  in  its  rich  nurture  that  had 
given  strength  to  the  great  trees ;  the 
seasons  that  had  filled  the  veins  of 
each  with  the  rich  wine  of  the  sap, 
the  bourgeoning  impulse  of  its  leafage 
and  the  ripeness  of  its  fine  fruitions; 
the  rainfall  and  sunshine  that  had  fed 
and  fostered  and  cherished  it — only  he 
had  naught  to  give  but  the  idle  gaze 
of  wistful  eyes. 

The   miller,  a    taciturn    man,    was 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

very  well  aware  that  he  had  sawed  the 
lumber.  He  said  naught  when  the  work 
was  ended,  but  surveyed  the  great 
fragrant  piles  of  cedar  and  walnut  and 
maple  and  cherry  and  oak,  the  build 
ing  woods  of  these  richly  endowed 
mountains,  with  a  silence  so  significant 
that  it  spoke  louder  than  words.  It 
said  that  his  work  was  finished,  and 
who  was  there  who  would  do  as  much 
or  more?  So  loud,  so  forceful,  so 
eloquent  was  this  challenge  that  the 
next  day  several  teamsters  came  and 
stood  dismally  each  holding  his  chin- 
whiskers  in  his  hand  and  contemplated 
the  field  of  practical  Christianity. 

"It'll  be  a  powerful  job  ter  hev  ter 
haul  all  that  thar  lumber,  sure!"  said 
one  reluctant  wight,  in  disconsolate  sur 
vey,  his  mouth  slightly  ajar,  his  hand 
ruefully  rubbing  his  cheek. 

"It  war  a  powerful  job  ter  saw  it," 
said  the  miller. 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

The  jaws  of  the  teamster  closed  with 
a  snap.  He  had  nothing  more  to  say. 
He,  too,  was  roused  to  the  gospel  of 
action.  The  miller  should  not  saw 
more  than  he  would  haul.  Thus  it 
was  that  the  next  day  found  him  with 
his  strong  mule  team  at  sunrise,  the 
first  great  lengths  of  the  boles  on 
the  wagon,  making  his  way  along  the 
steep  ascents  of  Jolton's  Ridge. 

And  again  Mark  looked  on  drearily. 
He  could  do  naught — he  and  Cockle- 
burr.  Cockleburr  was  hardly  broken 
to  the  saddle,  wild  and  restive,  and  it 
would  have  been  the  sacrifice  of  a  day's 
labor,  even  if  the  offer  of  such  unlikely 
aid  would  have  been  accepted,  to  hitch 
the  colt  in  for  the  hauling  of  this 
heavy  lumber,  such  earnest,  hearty 
work  as  the  big  mules  were  straining 
every  muscle  to  accomplish.  He  was 
too  poor,  he  felt,  with  a  bitter  sigh. 
He  could  do  naught — naught.  True, 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

he  armed  himself  with  an  axe,  and 
went  ahead  of  the  toiling  mules,  now 
and  then  cutting  down  a  sapling  which 
grew  in  the  midst  of  the  unfrequented 
bridle-path,  and  which  was  not  quite 
slight  enough  to  bend  beneath  the 
wagon  as  did  most  of  such  obstructions, 
or  widening  the  way  where  the  cluster 
ing  underbrush  threatened  a  stoppage 
of  the  team.  So  much  more,  under 
the  coercion  of  the  little  preacher's  ser 
mon,  he  had  wanted  to  do,  that  he 
hardly  cared  for  the  "  Helped  me 
powerful,  Mark,"  of  the  teamster's 
thanks,  when  they  had  reached  the 
destination  of  the  lumber — the  secluded 
nook  where  the  little  mountain  grave 
yard  nestled  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
range — the  site  chosen  by  the  neighbors 
for  the  erection  of  their  beloved  church. 
Beloved  before  one  of  the  bowlders 
that  made  the  piers  of  its  foundation 
was  selected  from  the  rocky  hillside, 
176 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

where  the  currents  of  forgotten,  long 
ebbed-away  torrents  had  stranded 
them,  where  the  detrition  of  the  rain 
and  the  sand  had  molded  them,  the 
powers  of  nature  thus  beginning 
the  building  of  the  church-house  to 
the  glory  of  God  in  times  so  long  gone 
past  that  man  has  no  record  of  its 
spaces.  Beloved  before  one  of  the 
great  logs  was  lifted  upon  another 
to  build  the  walls,  within  which  should 
be  crystallized  the  worship  of  congrega 
tions,  the  prayers  of  the  righteous  that 
should  avail  much.  Beloved  before 
one  of  the  puncheons  was  laid  of  the 
floor,  consecrated  with  the  hope  that 
many  a  sinner  should  tread  them  on 
the  way  to  salvation.  Beloved  with  the 
pride  of  a  worthy  achievement  and 
the  satisfaction  of  a  cherished  duty 
honestly  discharged,  before  a  blow  was 
struck  or  a  nail  driven. 

And  here  Mark,  earnestly  seeking  his 
177 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

opportunity  to  share  the  work,  found 
a  field  of  usefulness.  No  great  skill, 
one  may  be  sure,  prevailed  in  the 
methods  of  the  humble  handicraftsmen 
of  the  gorge — all  untrained  to  the  me 
chanical  arts,  and  each  a  jack-of-all- 
trades,  as  occasion  in  his  lowly  needs 
or  opportunity  might  offer.  Mark 
had  a  sort  of  knack  of  deftness,  a 
quick  and  exact  eye,  both  suppleness 
and  strength,  and  thus  he  was  some 
thing  more  than  a  mere  botch  of  an 
amateur  workman.  His  enthusiasm 
blossomed  forth.  He,  too,  might 
serve  the  great  cause.  He,  too, 
might  give  of  the  work  of  his  hands. 
At  it  he  was,  hammer  and  nails, 
from  morning  till  night,  and  he  rejoiced 
when  the  others  living  at  a  distance  and 
having  their  firesides  to  provide  for,  left 
him  here  late  alone  building  the  temple 
of  God  in  the  wilderness.  He  would 
ever  and  anon  glance  out  through  the 
178 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

interstices  of  the  unchinked  log  walls 
at  the  great  sun  going  down  over  the 
valley  behind  the  purple  mountains  of 
the  west,  and  lending  him  an  extra 
beam  to  drive  another  nail,  after  one 
might  think  it  time  to  be  dark  and 
still ;  and  vouchsafing  yet  another  ray, 
as  though  loath  to  quit  this  work, 
lingering  at  the  threshold  of  the  day, 
although  the  splendors  of  another  hem 
isphere  awaited  its  illumination,  and 
many  a  rich  Southern  scene  that  the 
sun  is  wont  to  love;  and  still  sending  a 
gleam,  high  aslant,  that  one  more  nail 
might  be  driven;  and  at  last  the  red 
suffusion  of  certain  farewell,  wherein 
was  enough  light  for  the  young  man 
to  catch  up  his  tools  and  set  out 
swiftly  and  joyously  down  the  side  of 
Jolton's  Ridge. 

And  always  was  he  first  at  the  tryst 
to  greet  the  sun — standing  in  the   un 
finished  building,    his   hammer  in  his 
179 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

hand,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
and  looking  through  the  gap  of  the 
range  to  watch  the  great  disk  when  it 
would  rise  over  the  Carolina  Moun 
tains,  with  its  broad,  prophetic  efful 
gence  falling  over  the  lowly  mounds  in 
the  graveyard,  as  if  one  might  say, 
"Behold!  the  dispersal  of  night,  the 
return  of  light,  the  earnest  of  the  Day 
to  come."  Long  before  the  other 
laborers  on  the  church  reached  the 
building  Mark  had  listened  to  the 
echoes  keeping  tally  with  the  strokes 
of  his  hammer,  had  heard  the  earth 
shake,  the  clangor  and  clash  of  the 
distant  train  on  the  rails,  the  shriek 
of  the  whistle  as  the  locomotive  rushed 
upon  the  bridge  above  that  deep 
chasm,  the  sinister  hollow  roar  of  the 
wheels,  and  the  deep,  thunderous  rever 
beration  of  the  rocks.  Thus  he  noted 
the  passage  of  the  early  trains — the 
freight  first,  and  after  an  hour's  inter- 
180 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

val  the  passenger  train ;  then  a  silence, 
as  if  primeval,  would  settle  down  upon 
the  world,  broken  only  by  the  strokes 
of  the  hammer,  until  at  last  some 
neighbor,  with  his  own  tools  in  hand, 
would  come  in. 

None  of  them  realized  how  much 
of  the  work  Mark  had  done.  Each 
looked  only  at  the  result,  know 
ing  it  to  be  the  aggregated  industry 
and  leisure  of  the  neighbors,  laboring 
as  best  they  might  and  as  opportunity 
offered.  This  was  no  hindrance  to 
Mark's  satisfaction.  He  had  wanted 
to  help,  not  to  make  a  parade  of  his 
help,  or  to  have  what  he  had  done 
appreciated.  He  thought  the  little 
preacher,  the  " skimpy  saint,"  as  his 
unfriends  called  him,  had  a  definite 
idea  of  what  he  had  done.  In  the 
stress  of  this  man's  lofty  ideals  he 
could  compromise  with  little  that  failed 
to  reach  them.  He  was  forever  stretch- 
181 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

ing  onward  and  upward.  But  Mark 
noted  a  kindling  in  his  intent  eye  one 
day,  while  "the  chinking"  was  being 
put  in,  the  small  diagonal  slats  between 
the  logs  of  the  wall  on  which  the  clay 
of  the  "  daubing"  was  to  be  plastered. 
"Did  you  do  all  this  side?"  he  had 
asked. 

As  Mark  answered  "Yes,"  he  felt 
his  heart  swell  with  responsive  pride 
to  win  even  this  infrequent  look  of 
approval,  and  he  went  on  to  claim 
more.  "Don't  tell  nobody,"  he  said, 
glancing  up  from  his  kneeling  posture 
by  the  side  of  the  wall.  "But  I  done 
that  corner,  too,  over  thar  by  the  door. 
Old  Joel  Ruggles  done  it  fust,  but 
the  old  man's  eyesight's  dim,  an'  his 
hand  onstiddy,  an'  'twar  all  crooked 
an'  onreg'lar,  so  unbeknown  ter  him  I 
kem  hyar  early  one  day  an'  did  it  over, 
— though  he  don't  know  it, — so  ez 
'twould  be  ekal — all  of  a  piece." 
182 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

The  '' skimpy  saint"  now  hardly 
seemed  to  care  to  glance  at  the  work. 
He  still  stood  with  his  hand  on  the 
boy's  shoulder,  looking  down  at  him 
with  eyes  in  which  Mark  perceived 
new  meanings. 

"You  can  sense,  then,  the  worth  of 
hevin'  all  things  of  a  piece  with  the 
best.  See  ter  it,  Mark,  that  ye  keep 
yer  life  all  of  a  piece  with  this  good 
work — with  the  best  that's  in  ye." 

So  Mark  understood.  But  nowadays 
he  hardly  felt  all  of  a  piece  with  the 
good  work  he  had  done  on  the  church 
walls,  against  so  many  discourage 
ments,  laboring  early  and  late,  seeking 
earnestly  some  means  that  might  be 
within  his  limited  power.  Oftentimes, 
after  the  church  was  finished,  he  went 
and  stood  and  gazed  at  it,  realizing  its 
stanch  validity,  without  short-comings, 
without  distortions — all  substantial  and 
regular,  with  none  of  the  discrepancies 
183 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

and  inadequacies  of  his  moral  struc 
ture. 

While  silently  and  meditatively  re 
calling  all  these  facts  as  he  sat  this 
night  of  early  spring  among  the  widely 
unrelated  surroundings  of  the  still,  the 
shadowy  group  of  moonshiners  about 
him,  Mark  Yates  looked  hard  at  Pan 
ther  Brice's  sharp  features,  showing,  in 
the  thread  of  white  light  from  the  closed 
door  of  the  furnace,  with  startling  dis 
tinctness  against  the  darkness,  like 
some  curiously  carved  cameo.  He 
never  understood  the  rush  of  feeling 
that  constrained  him  to  speak,  and 
afterward,  when  he  thought  of  it,  his 
temerity  surprised  him. 

''Painter,"  he  said,  "I  hev  been 
a-comin'  hyar  ter  this  hyar  still-house 
along  of  ye  an'  the  t'other  boys  right 
smart  time,  an'  I  hev  been  mighty  well 
treated;  an'  I  ain't  one  o'  the  sort  ez 
kin  buy  much  liquor,  nuther.  I  hev 
184 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

hed  a  many  a  free  drink  hyar,  an'  a 
sight  o'  laughin'  an'  talkin'  along  o' 
ye  an'  the  t'other  boys.  An'  'twarn't 
the  whisky  as  brung  me,  nuther — 
'twar  mos'ly  ter  hear  them  yarns  o' 
yourn  'bout  bar-huntin'  an'  sech,  fur 
ye  air  the  talkin' est  one  o'  the  lot. 
But  ef  ye  air  a-goin'  ter  take  it  out'n 
the  preacher  or  the  church-house — I 
hain't  got  the  rights  o'  what  ye  air 
a-layin'  off  ter  do,  an'  I  don't  want 
ter  know,  nuther — jes'  'kase  ye  an' 
the  t'other  boys  war  turned  out'n  the 
church,  I  hev  hed  my  fill  o'  associatin' 
with  ye.  I  ain't  a-goin'  ter  hev  nuthin' 
ter  do  with  men-folks  ez  would  fight  a 
pore  critter  of  a  preacher,  what  hev  got 
ez  much  right  ter  jow  ez  ef  he  war  a 
woman.  Sass  is  what  they  both  war 
made  fur,  it  'pears  like  ter  me,  an' 
'twar  toler'ble  spunky  sure  in  him  ter 
speak  his  mind  so  plain,  knowing  what 
a  fighter  ye  be  an'  the  t'others,  too — 
185 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

no  other  men  hev  got  the  name  of  sech 
tremenjious  fighters!  I  allow  he  seen 
his  jewty  plain  in  what  he  done, 
seem'  he  tuk  sech  risks.  An'  ef  ye 
air  a-goin'  ter  raise  a  'sturbance  ter 
the  church-house,  or  whatever  ye  air 
a-layin'  off  ter  do  terzV,  I  ain't  a-goin' 
ter  hev  no  hand-shakin'  with  sech 
folks.  Payin'  'em  back  ain't  a-goin' 
ter  patch  up  the  matter  nohow — ye're 
done  turned  out  the  church  now,  an' 
that  ain't  a-goin'  ter  put  ye  back.  It 
'pears  mighty  cur'ous  ter  me  ez  a  man 
ez  kin  claw  with  a  bar  same  ez  with  a 
little  purp,  kin  git  so  riled  ez  he'll  take 
up  with  fightin'  of  that  thar  pore  lit 
tle  preacher  what  ain't  got  a  ounce  o* 
muscle  ter  save  his  life.  I  wouldn't 
mind  his  jowin'  at  me  no  more'n  I 
mind  my  mother's  jowin' — an'  she  air 
always  at  it." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  few  mo 
ments — only  the  sound  of  the  trickling 
186 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

liquor  from  the  worm  and  the  whir  in 
side  the  still.  That  white  face,  illum 
ined  by  the  thread  of  light,  was  so 
motionless  that  it  might  have  seemed 
petrified  but  for  the  intense  green  glare 
of  the  widely  open  eyes.  The  lips 
suddenly  parted  in  a  snarl,  showing 
two  rows  of  sharp  white  teeth,  and 
the  high  shrill  voice  struck  the  air  with 
a  shiver. 

"Ye're  the  cussedest  purp  in  this 
hyar  gorge!"  the  Panther  exclaimed. 
"Ye  sit  thar  an*  tell  how  well  ye 
hev  been  treated  hyar  ter  this  hyar 
still-house,  an*  then  let  on  ez  how 
ye  think  ye' re  too  good  ter  come 
a-visitin'  hyar  any  more.  Ye  air 
like  all  the  rest  o'  these  folks  round 
hyar — ye  take  all  ye  wants,  an'  then 
the  fust  breath  of  a  word  agin  a  body 
ye  turns  agin  'em  too.  Ye  kin  clar 
out'n  this.  Ye  ain't  wanted  hyar.  I 
ain't  a-goin'  ter  let  none  o'  yer  church 
187 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

brethren  nor  thar  fr'en's  nuther — fur 
ye  ain't  even  a  perfessin'  member — 
come  five  mile  a-nigh  hyar  arter  this. 
We  air  a-goin'  ter  turn  'em  out'n  the 
still-house,  an'  that  thar  will  hurt  'em 
worse'n  turnin'  'em  out'n  the  church. 
They  go  an'  turn  us  out'n  the  church 
fur  runnin'  of  a  still,  an'  before  the 
Lord,  we  kin  hardly  drive  'em  away 
from  hyar  along  of  we-uns.  I'm  a-goin' 
ter  git  the  skin  o'  one  o'  these  hyar 
brethren  an'  nail  it  ter  the  door  like  a 
mink's  skin  ter  a  henhouse,  an'  I'll  see 
ef  that  can't  skeer  'em  off.  An'  ef  ye 
don't  git  out'n  hyar  mighty  quick 
now,  Mark  Yates,  like  ez  not  the  fust 
skin  nailed  ter  the  door  will  be  that 
thar  big,  loose  hide  o'  yourn." 

"I  ain't  the  man  ter  stay  when  I'm 
axed  ter  go, ' '  said  young  Yates,  rising, 
"an'  so  I'll  light  out  right  now.  But 
what  I  wara-aimin'  ter  tell  ye,  Painter, 
war  ez  how  I  hev  sot  too  much  store 
1 88 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

by  ye  and  the  t'other  boys  ter  want 
ter  see  ye  a-cuttin'  cur'ous  shines 
'bout  the  church-house  an'  that  leetle 
mite  of  a  preacher  an'  sech." 

Once  more  that  mental  reservation 
touching  ''the  strength  of  righteous 
ness"  recurred  to  him.  Was  the  little 
preacher  altogether  a  weakling?  His 
courage  was  a  stanch  endowment. 
He  had  been  warned  of  the  gathering 
antagonisms  a  hundred  times,  and  by 
friend  as  well  as  foe.  But  obstinately, 
resolutely,  he  kept  on  the  path  he  had 
chosen  to  tread. 

"An'  I'll  let  ye  know  ez  I  kin  be 
frien'ly  with  a  man  ez  rights  bars  an' 
fightin'-men,"  Mark  resumed,  "but  I 
kin  abide  no  man  ez  gits  ter  huntin' 
down  little  scraps  of  preachers  what 
hain't  got  no  call  ter  fight,  nor  no 
muscle  nuther." 

"Ye' 11  go  away  'thcut  that  thar  hide 
o*  yourn  ef  ye  don't  put  out  mighty 
189 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

quick  now,"  said  the  Panther,  his  sinis 
ter  green  eyes  ablaze  and  his  supple 
body  trembling  with  eagerness  to  leap 
upon  his  foe. 

"I  ain't  afeard  of  ye,  Painter/'  said 
Mark,  with  his  impenetrable  calm, 
"but  this  hyar  still-house  air  yourn, 
an'  I  s'pose  ez  ye  hev  got  a  right 
ter  say  who  air  ter  stay  an'  who  air 
ter  go." 

He  went  out  into  the  chill  night; 
the  moon  had  sunk;  the  fleet  of 
clouds  rode  at  anchor  above  the  east 
ern  horizon,  and  save  the  throbbing  of 
the  constellations  the  sky  was  still. 
But  the  strong,  cold  wind  continued  to 
circle  close  about  the  surface  of  the 
earth ;  the  pines  were  swaying  to  and 
fro,  and  moaning  as  they  swayed ;  the 
bare  branches  of  the  other  trees  crashed 
fitfully  together.  As  Yates  mounted 
his  horse  he  heard  Aaron  say,  in  a 
fretful  tone:  "In  the  name  of  God, 
190 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

John,  what  ails  ye  to-night?  Ye  tuk 
Mark  an'  Mose  up  ez  sharp!  Ye  air 
ez  powerful  bouncin'  ez  ef  ye  hed  been 
drunk  fur  a  week." 

The  keen  voice  of  the  Panther  rang 
out  shrilly,  and  Mark  gave  his  horse 
whip  and  heel  to  be  beyond  the 
sound  of  it.  He  wanted  to  hear  no 
more — not  even  the  tones — least  of  all 
the  words,  and  words  spoken  in  con 
fidence  in  their  own  circle  when  they 
believed  themselves  unheard.  He 
feared  there  was  some  wicked  con 
spiracy  among  them;  he  could  not 
imagine  what  it  might  be,  but  since  he 
could  do  naught  to  hinder  he  earnestly 
desired  that  he  might  not  become 
accidentally  cognizant  of  it,  and  in  so 
far  accessory  to  it.  He  therefore 
sought  to  give  them  some  intimation 
of  his  lingering  presence,  for  Cockle- 
burr  had  been  frisky  and  restive,  and 


191 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

difficult  to  mount ;  he  accordingly  be 
gan  to  sing  aloud : — 

"  You  hear  that  ha wn?    Yo  he!  Yoho!" 

But  what  was  this?  Instead  of  his 
customary  hearty  whoop,  the  tones 
rang  out  all  forlornly,  a  wheeze  and  a 
quaver,  and  finally  broke  and  sunk 
into  silence.  But  the  voices  in  con 
versation  within  had  suddenly  ceased. 
The  musically  disposed  of  the  Brice 
brothers  himself  was  singing,  as  if 
quite  casually: — 

"He  wept  full  sore  fur  his  'dear  friend  Jack,' 
An'  how  could  I  know  he  meant  'Apple-Jack' ! " 

Mark  was  aware  that  they  had  taken 
his  warning,  although  with  no  appre 
ciation  of  his  motive  in  giving  it.  He 
could  .imagine  the  contemptuous 
anger  against  him  with  which  they 
looked  significantly  at  one  another  as 
they  sat  in  the  dusky  shadows  around 
the  still,  and  he  knew  that  his  sudden 
192 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S   RIDGE 

outburst  into  song  must  seem  to  them 
bravado — an  intimation  that  he  did  not 
care  for  having  been  summarily  ejected 
from  the  still-house,  when  in  reality, 
only  the  recollection  of  it  sent  the  color 
flaming  to  his  cheeks  and  the  tears  to 
his  eyes.  This  was  not  for  the  mere 
matter  of  pride,  either;  but  for  dis 
appointment,  for  fled  illusions,  for  the 
realization  that  he  had  placed  a  false 
valuation  on  these  men.  He  had  been 
flattered  that  they  had  cared  for  his 
friendship,  and  reciprocally  had  valued 
him  more  than  others;  they  had  rel 
ished  and  invited  his  companionship ; 
they  had  treated  him  almost  as  one  of 
themselves.  And  although  he  saw 
much  gambling  and  drinking,  some 
times  resulting  in  brawls  and  furious 
fights,  against  which  his  moral  sense 
revolted,  he  felt  sure  that  their  dissi 
pation  was  transitory;  they  would  all 
straighten  out  and  settle  down — when 
193 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

they  themselves  were  older.  In  truth, 
he  could  hardly  have  conceived  that 
this  manifestation  of  to-night  was  the 
true  identity  of  the  friends  to  whom 
he  had  attached  himself — that  their 
souls,  their  hearts,  their  minds,  were 
of  a  piece  with  the  texture  of  their 
daily  lives,  as  sooner  or  later  the  event 
would  show.  In  the  disuse  of  good 
impulses  and  honest  qualities  they 
grow  lax  and  weak.  They  are  the 
moral  muscles  of  the  spiritual  being, 
and,  like  the  muscles  of  the  physical 
body,  they  must  needs  be  exercised 
and  trained  to  serve  the  best  interests 
of  the  soul. 

"Yo-he!  Yo-ho!"  sang  poor  Mark, 
as  he  plunged  into  the  forest,  keeping 
in  the  wood  trail,  called  courteously  a 
road,  partly  by  the  memory  of  his 
horse,  and  partly  by  the  keen  sight  of 
his  gray  eyes.  He  lapsed  presently 
into  silence,  for  he  had  no  heart  for 
194 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

singing,  and  he  jogged  on  dispir 
ited,  gloomy,  reflective,  through  the 
rugged  ways  of  the  wilderness.  It  was 
fully  two  hours  before  he  emerged  into 
the  more  open  country  about  his 
mother's  house;  as  he  reached  the 
bank  of  the  stream  he  glanced  up, 
toward  the  bridge — the  faintest  sug 
gestion  of  two  parallel  lines  across  the 
instarred  sky.  A  great  light  flashed 
through  the  heavens,  followed  by  a 
comet-like  sweep  of  fiery  sparks. 

"That  thar  air  the  'leven  o'clock 
train,  I  reckon,"  said  Mark,  making 
his  cautious  way  among  the  bowlders 
and  fragments  of  fallen  rock  to  the  door 
of  the  house.  The  horse  plucked  up 
spirit  to  neigh  gleefully  at  the  sight  of 
his  shanty  and  the  thought  of  his 
supper.  The  sound  brought  Mrs.  Yates 
to  the  window  of  the  cabin. 

"Air  that  ye  a-comin',  Mark?"  she 
asked. 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

"It  air  me  an*  Cockleburr, "  replied 
her  son,  with  an  effort  to  be  cheerful 
too,  and  to  cast  away  gloomy  thoughts 
in  the  relief  of  being  once  more  at 
home. 

"Air  ye  ez  drunk  ez  or'nary?"  de 
manded  his  mother. 

This  was  a  damper.  "I  ain't  drunk 
nohow  in  theworl',"  said  Mark,  sul 
lenly. 

"Whyn't  ye  stay  ter  the  still,  then, 
till  ye  war  soaked?"  she  gibed  at 
him. 

Mark  dismounted  in  silence;  there 
was  no  saddle  to  be  unbuckled,  and 
Cockleburr  walked  at  once  into  the 
little  shed  to  munch  upon  a  handful  of 
hay  and  to  dream  of  corn. 

His  master,  entering  the  house,  was 
saluted  by  the  inquiry,  "War  Painter 
Brice  ez  drunk  ez  common?" 

"No,  he  warn't  drunk  nuther." 

"Hev  the  still  gone  dry?"  asked 
196 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

Mrs.  Yates,  affecting  an  air  of  deep 
interest. 

"Not  ez  I  knows  on,  it  hain't,"  said 
Mark. 

"Thar  must  be  suthin'  mighty  com 
ical  a-goin  on  ef  ye  nor  Painter  nare 
one  air  drunk.  Is  Aaron  drunk,  then? 
Nor  Pete?  nor  Joe?  Waal,  this  air 
powerful  disapp'intin'."  And  she 
took  off  her  spectacles,  wiped  them  on 
her  apron,  and  shook  her  head  slowly 
to  and  fro  in  solemn  mockery. 

"Waal,"  she  continued,  with  a  more 
natural  appearance  of  interest,  "what 
war  they  all  a-talkin'  'bout  ter-night?" 

Mark  sat  down,  and  looked  gloomily 
at  the  dying  embers  in  the  deep  chim 
ney-place  for  a  moment,  then  he  re 
plied,  evasively,  "Nuthin'  much." 

"That's  what  ye  always  say!     Ef  I 

go  from  hyar  ter  the  spring  yander,  I 

kin  come  back  with  more  to  tell  than 

yer  kin  gether  up  in  a  day  an'  a  night 

197 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

at  the  still.  It  'pears  like  ter  me  men 
war  mos'ly  made  jes'  ter  eat  an*  drink, 
an*  thar  tongues  war  gin  'em  for  no  use 
but  jes'  ter  keep  'em  from  feelin'  lone 
some  like." 

Mark  did  not  respond  to  this  sarcasm. 
His  mother  presently  knelt  down  on 
the  rough  stones  of  the  hearth,  and 
began  to  rake  the  coals  together,  cov 
ering  them  with  ashes,  preliminary  to 
retiring  for  the  night.  She  glanced  up 
into  his  face  as  she  completed  the 
work ;  then,  with  a  gleam  of  fun  in  her 
eyes,  she  said : 

"Ye  look  like  ye' re  study  in'  pow 
erful  hard,  Mark.  Mebbe  ye  air 
a-cornsiderin'  'bout  gittin'  married. 
It's  'bout  time  ez  ye  war  a-gittin' 
another  woman  hyar  ter  work  fur  ye, 
'kase  I'm  toler'ble  old,  an'  can't  live 
forever  mo',  an'  some  day  ye' 11  find 
yerself  desolated." 

"I  ain't  a-studyin'  no  more  'bout 
198 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

a-gettin*  married  nor  ye  air  yerself, " 
Mark  retorted,  petulantly. 

"Ye  ain't  a-studyin'  much  'bout  it, 
then,"  said  his  mother.  "The  Bible 
looks  like  it  air  a-pityin'  of  widders 
mightily,  but  it  'pears  ter  me  that  the 
worst  of  thar  troubles  is  over." 

Then  ensued  a  long  silence.  *  *  Thar's 
one  thing  to  be  sartain,"  said  Mark, 
suddenly.  "I  ain't  never  a-goin  ter 
that  thar  still  no  more." 

"I  hev  hearn  ye  say  that  afore," 
remarked  Mrs.  Yates,  dryly.  "An* 
thar  never  come  a  day  when  yer  father 
war  alive  ez  he  didn't  say  that  very 
word — nor  a  day  as  that  word  warn't 
bruken." 

These  amenities  were  at  length 
sunk  in  sleep,  and  the  little  log 
hut  hung  upon  its  precarious  perch 
on  the  slope  beneath  the  huge  cliff 
all  quiet  and  lonely.  The  great  gorge 
seemed  a  channel  hewn  for  the  winds; 
199 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

they  filled  it  with  surging  waves 
of  sound,  and  the  vast  stretches  of 
woods  were  in  wild  commotion.  The 
Argus-eyed  sky  still  held  its  stead 
fast  watch,  but  an  impenetrable  black 
mask  clung  to  the  earth.  At  long 
intervals  there  arose  from  out  the  for 
est  the  cry  of  a  wild  beast — the  anguish 
of  the  prey  or  the  savage  joy  of  the 
captor — and  then  for  a  time  no  sound 
save  the  monotonous  ebb  and  flow  of 
the  sea  of  winds.  Suddenly,  a  shrill 
whistle  awoke  the  echoes,  the  meteor- 
like  train  sweeping  across  the  sky  wav 
ered,  faltered,  and  paused  on  the  verge 
of  the  crag.  Then  the  darkness  was 
instarred  with  faint,  swinging  points  of 
light,  and  there  floated  down  upon  the 
wind  the  sound  of  eager,  excited 
voices. 

"Ef  them  thar  cars  war  ter  drap 
offn  that  thar  bluff,"  said  the  anxious 
Mrs.  Yates,  as  she  and  her  son, 

200 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

aroused  by  the  unwonted  noise,  came 
out  of  the  hut,  and  gazed  upward  at 
the  great  white  glare  of  the  headlight, 
" they'd  ruin  the  turnip  patch,  worl' 
without  e-end." 

"Nothing  whatever  is  the  matter," 
said  the  Pullman  conductor,  cheerily, 
to  his  passengers,  as  he  re-entered  his 
coach.  "Only  a  little  church  on  fire 
just  beyond  the  curve  of  the  road;  the 
engineer  couldn't  determine  at  first 
whether  it  was  a  fire  built  on  the  track 
or  on  the  hillside." 

The  curtains  of  the  berths  were 
dropped,  sundry  inquiring  windows 
were  closed,  the  travelers  lay  back  on 
their  hard  pillows,  the  faint  swinging 
points  of  light  moved  upward  as  the 
men  with  the  lanterns  sprang  upon 
the  platforms,  the  train  moved  slowly 
and  majestically  across  the  bridge,  and 
presently  it  was  whizzing  past  the  lit 
tle  church,  where  the  flames  had  licked 

201 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

up  benches  and  pulpit  and  floor,  and 
were  beginning  to  stream  through  door 
and  window,  and  far  above  the  roof. 

The  miniature  world  went  clanging 
along  its  way,  careless  of  what  it  left 
behind,  and  the  turnip  patch  was 
saved. 

The  wonderful  phenomenon  of  the 
stoppage  of  the  train  had  aroused 
the  whole.countryside,  and  when  it  had 
passed,  the  strange  lurid  glare  high  on 
the  slope  of  the  mountain  attracted 
attention.  There  was  an  instant  rush 
of  the  scattered  settlers  toward  the 
doomed  building.  A  narrow,  circui 
tous  path  led  them  up  the  steep  ascent 
among  gigantic  rocks  and  dense  pine 
thickets;  the  roaring  of  the  tumultuous 
wind  drowned  all  other  sounds,  and 
they  soon  ceased  the  endeavor  to  speak 
to  one  another  as  they  went,  and 
canvass  their  suspicions  and  indigna 
tion.  Turning  a  sharp  curve,  the 
202 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

foremost  of  the  party  came  abruptly 
upon  a  man  descending. 

He  had  felt  secure  in  the  dead 
hour  of  night  and  the  thick  dark 
ness,  and  the  distance  had  precluded 
him  from  being  warned  by  the  stop 
page  of  the  train.  He  stood  in  motion 
less  indecision  for  an  instant,  until 
Moses  Carter,  who  was  a  little  in  ad 
vance  of  the  others,  made  an  effort  to 
seize  him,  exclaiming,  "This  fire  ez 
ye  hev  kindled,  Painter  Brice,  will 
burn  ye  in  hell  forever!"  He  spoke 
at  a  venture,  not  recognizing  the  dark 
shadow,  but  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  supple  spring  with  which  the  man 
threw  himself  upon  his  enemy,  nor  the 
keen  ferocity  that  wielded  the  sharp 
knife.  Hearing,  however,  in  the  ebb 
of  the  wind,  voices  approaching  from 
the  hill  below,  and  realizing  the  num 
ber  of  his  antagonists,  the  Panther 
tore  himself  loose,  and  running  in  the 
203 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

dark  with  the  unerring  instinct  and 
precision  of  the  wild  beast  that  he 
was,  he  sped  up  the  precipitous  slope, 
and  was  lost  in  the  gloomy  night. 

"Gin  us  the  slip!"  exclaimed  Joel 
Ruggles,  in  grievous  disappointment, 
as  he  came  up  breathless.  "A  cussed 
painter  if  ever  thar  war  one." 

"Mebbe  he  won't  go  fur,"  said 
Moses  Carter.  "He  done  cut  my  arm 
a-nigh  in  two,  but  thar  air  suthin'  a- 
drippin'  off  'n  my  knife  what  I  feels  in 
my  bones  is  that  thar  Painter's  blood. 
An'  I  ain't  a-goin  ter  stop  till  he  air 
cotched,  dead  or  alive.  He  mought 
hev  gone  down  yander  ter  the  Widder 
Yates's  house,  ez  him  an'  Mark  air 
thicker'n  thieves.  Come  ter  think 
on't,"  he  continued,  "Mark  war 
a-settin'  with  this  hyar  very  Painter 
Brice  an'  the  t'others  yander  ter  the 
still-house  nigh  'pon  eight  o'clock 
ter-night,  an'  like  ez  not  he  holped 
204 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

Painter  an'  the  Mothers  ter  fire  the 
church."  For  there  was  a  strong  im 
pression  prevalent  that  wherever 
Panther  Brice  was,  his  satellite  broth 
ers  were  not  far  off.  Nothing,  how 
ever,  was  seen  of  them  on  the  way, 
and  the  pursuers  burst  in  upon  the 
frightened  widow  and  her  son  with  lit 
tle  ceremony.  Her  assertion  that  Mark 
had  not  left  home  since  the  eleven 
o'clock  train  passed  was  disregarded, 
and  they  dragged  the  young  fellow 
out  to  the  door,  demanding  to  know 
where  were  the  Brices. 

"I  hain't  seen  none  of  'em  since  I 
lef  the  still  'bout'n  eight  or  nine 
o'clock  ter-night,"  Mark  protested. 

"Ef  the  truth  war  knowed,"  said 
Moses  Carter,  jeeringly,  "ye  never 
lef  the  still  till  they  did.  War  it  ye 
ez  helped  'em  ter  fire  the  church?" 

"I  never  knowed  the  church  war 
burnin'  till  ye  kem  hyar, "  replied 
205 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

young  Yates.  He  was  almost  over 
powered  by  a  sickening  realization  of 
the  meaning  of  those  covert  insinua 
tions  which  he  had  heard  at  the  still ; 
and  he  remembered  that  the  Panther's 
assertion  that  the  church  was  safer 
with  the  Brices  in  it  than  out  of  it, 
was  made  while  he  sat  among  the 
brothers  in  Moses  Carter's  presence. 
He  saw  the  justice  of  the  strong  sus 
picion. 

"You  know,  though,  whar  Painter 
Brice  is  now — don't  ye?"  asked  Carter. 

A  faint  streak  of  dawn  was  athwart 
the  eastern  clouds,  and  as  the  young 
fellow  turned  his  bewildered  eyes 
upward  to  it  the  blood  stood  still  in  his 
veins.  Upon  one  of  the  parallel  lines 
of  the  bridge  was  the  figure  of  man, 
belittled  by  the  distance,  and  indis 
tinctly  defined  against  the  mottling  sky ; 
but  the  far-seeing  gray  eyes  detected 
in  a  certain  untrammeled  ease,  as  it 
206 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

moved  lightly  from  one  of  the  ties  to 
another,  the  Panther's  free  motion. 

Mark  Yates  hesitated.  He  cherished 
an  almost  superstitious  reverence  for 
the  church  which  Panther  Brice  had 
desecrated  and  destroyed,  and  he 
feared  the  consequences  of  refusing  to 
give  the  information  demanded  of  him. 
A  denial  of  the  knowledge  he  did  not 
for  a  moment  contemplate.  And 
struggling  in  his  mind  against  these 
considerations  was  a  recollection  of  the 
hospitality  of  the  Brices,  and  of  the 
ill-starred  friendship  that  had  taken 
root  and  grown  and  flourished  at  the 
still. 

This  hesitation  was  observed ;  there 
were  significant  looks  interchanged 
among  the  men,  and  the  question  was 
repeated,  "Whar's  Painter  Brice?" 

The  decision  of  the  problems  that 
agitated  the  mind  of  Mark  Yates  was 
not  left  to  him.  He  saw  the  figure 
207 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

on  the  bridge  suddenly  turn,  then 
start  eagerly  forward.  A  heavy  freight 
train,  almost  noiseless  in  the  wild 
whirl  of  the  wind,  had  approached 
very  near  without  being  perceived  by 
Panther  Brice.  He  could  not  retrace 
his"  way  before  it  would  be  upon  him 
— to  cross  the  bridge  in  advance  of 
it  was  his  only  hope.  He  was  dizzy 
from  the  loss  of  blood  and  the  great 
height,  and  the  wind  was  blowing 
between  the  cliffs  in  a  strong,  unob 
structed  current.  As  he  ran  rapidly 
onward,  the  first  faint  gleam  of  the 
approaching  headlight  touched  the 
bridge — a  furious  warning  shriek  of 
the  whistle  mingled  with  a  wild  human 
cry,  and  the  Panther,  missing  his  foot 
ing,  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  into  the 
depths  of  the  black  waters  below. 

There   was   a    revulsion  of    feeling, 
very  characteristic  of    inconstant   hu 
manity,  in  the  little  group  on  the  slope 
208 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

below  the  crag.  Before  Mark  Yates's 
frantic  exclamation,  "Thar  goes 
Painter  Brice,  an'  he'll  be  drownded 
sure!"  had  fairly  died  upon  the  air, 
half  a  dozen  men  were  struggling  in 
the  dark,  cold  water  of  the  swift  stream 
in  the  vain  attempt  to  rescue  their 
hunted  foe.  Long  after  they  had 
given  up  the  forlorn  hope  of  saving  his 
life,  the  morning  sun  for  hours  watched 
them  patrolling  the  banks  for  the  re 
covery  of  the  body. 

"Ef  we  could  haul  that  pore  critter 
out  somehow  'nother, "  said  Moses 
Carter,  his  arm  still  dripping  from  the 
sharp  strokes  of  the  Panther's  knife, 
"an'  git  the  preacher  ter  bury  him 
somewhar  under  the  pines  like  he  war 
a  Christian,  I  could  rest  more  sati'fied 
in  my  mind." 

The  mountain  stream  never  gave 
him  up. 

This  event  had  a  radical  influence 
209 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

upon  the  future  of  Mark  Yates.  Never 
again  did  he  belittle  the  possible  im 
petus  given  the  moral  nature  by  those 
more  trifling  wrongs  that  always  result 
in  an  increased  momentum  toward 
crime.  He  was  the  first  to  discover 
more  of  what  Painter  Brice  had  really 
intended, — had  attempted, — than  was 
immediately  apparent  to  the  country 
side  in  general.  A  fragment  of  the 
door  lay  unburned  among  the  charred 
remains  of  the  little  church  in  the 
wilderness — a  fragment  that  carried 
the  lock,  the  key.  Mark's  sharp  eyes 
fixed  upon  a  salient  point  as  he  stood 
among  the  group  that  had  congre 
gated  there  in  the  sad  light  of  the 
awakening  day.  The  key  was  on  the 
outside  of  the  door,  and  it  had  been 
turned!  The  Panther  had  doubtless 
been  actuated  by  revenge,  and  perhaps, 
had  been  influenced  by  the  fear  that 
information  of  the  illicit  distilling  would 

210 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

be  given  by  the  parson  to  the  revenue 
authorities,  as  a  means  of  breaking 
up  an  element  so  inimical  to  the  true 
progress  of  religion  on  the  ridge — its 
denizens  hitherto  availing  themselves 
of  the  convenience  of  the  still  to 
assuage  any  pricks  of  conscience  they 
may  have  had  in  the  matter,  and 
also  fearing  the  swift  and  terrible 
fate  that  inevitably  overtook  the 
informer.  At  all  events,  it  was  evi 
dent,  that  having  reason  to  believe 
the  minister  was  still  within,  Painter 
Brice  had  noiselessly  locked  the 
door  that  his  unsuspecting  enemy 
might  also  perish  in  the  flames.  For 
in  the  primitive  fashioning  of  the  build 
ing  there  was  no  aperture  for  light 
and  air  except  the  door — no  window, 
save  a  small,  glassless  square  above  the 
pulpit  which,  in  the  good  time  com 
ing,  the  congregation  had  hoped  to 
glaze,  to  receive  therefrom  more  light 

211 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

on  salvation.  It  was  so  small,  so 
high,  that  perhaps  no  other  man  could 
have  slipped  through  it,  save  indeed 
the  slim  little  ' 'skimpy  saint,"  and  it 
was  thus  that  he  had  escaped. 

No  vengeance  followed  the  Panther's 
brothers.  "They  hed  ter  do  jes'  what 
Painter  tole  'em,  ye  see,"  was  the  ex 
planation  of  this  leniency.  And  Mark 
Yates  was  always  afterward  described 
as  "a  peart  smart  boy,  ef  he  hedn't 
helped  the  Brices  ter  fire  the  church- 
house."  The  still  continued  to  be 
run  according  to  the  old  regulations, 
except  there  was  no  whisky  sold  to 
the  church  brethren.  "That  bein'  the 
word  ez  John  left  behind  him,"  said 
Aaron.  The  laws  of  few  departed 
rulers  are  observed  with  the  rigor  which 
the  Brices  accorded  to  the  Panther's 
word.  The  locality  came  to  be  gen 
erally  avoided,  and  no  one  cared  to 
linger  there  after  dark,  save  the  three 

212 


PANTHER  OF  JOLTON'S  RIDGE 

Brices,  who  sat  as  of  old,  in  the  black 
shadows  about  the  still. 

Whenever  in  the  night-wrapped 
gorge  a  shrill  cry  is  heard  from  the 
woods,  or  the  wind  strikes  a  piercing 
key,  or  the  train  thunders  over  the 
bridge  with  a  wild  shriek  of  whistles, 
and  the  rocks  repeat  it  with  a  human 
tone  in  the  echo,  the  simple  foresters  are 
wont  to  turn  a  trifle  pale  and  to  bar 
up  the  doors,  declaring  that  the  sound 
"air  Painter  Brice  a-callin'  fur  his 
brothers/' 


213 


THE   EXPLOIT 

OF 

CHOOLAH,   THE   CHICKASAW 


THE   EXPLOIT 

OF 

CHOOLAH,   THE   CHICKASAW 

The  victorious  campaign  which  Lieu 
tenant-Colonel  James  Grant  conducted 
in  the  Cherokee  country  in  the  summer 
of  1761,  and  which  redounded  so 
greatly  to  the  credit  of  the  courage 
and  endurance  of  the  expeditionary 
force,  British  regulars  and  South  Caro 
lina  provincials,  is  like  many  other 
human  events  in  presenting  to  the 
casual  observation  only  an  harmonious 
whole,  while  it  is  made  up  of  a  thou 
sand  little  jagged  bits  of  varied  incident 
inconsistent  and  irregular,  and  with 
no  single  element  in  common  but  the 
attraction  of  cohesion  to  amalgamate 
the  mosaic. 

217 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

Perhaps  no  two  men  in  the  com 
mand  saw  alike  the  peaks  of  the  Great 
Smoky  Mountains  hovering  elusively 
on  the  horizon,  now  purple  and  omi 
nous  among  the  storm  clouds,  for  the 
rain  fell  persistently ;  now  distant,  blue, 
transiently  sun-flooded,  and  with  the 
prismatic  splendors  of  the  rainbow 
spanning  in  successive  arches  the 
abysses  from  dome  to  dome,  and  grow 
ing  ever  fainter  and  fainter  in  duplica 
tion  far  away.  Perhaps  no  two  men  re 
vived  similar  impressions  as  they  recog 
nized  various  localities  from  the  South 
Carolina  coast  to  the  Indian  town 
of  Etchoee,  near  the  Little  Tennessee 
River,  for  many  of  them  had  traversed 
hundreds  of  miles  of  these  wild  fast 
nesses  the  previous  year,  when  Col 
onel  Montgomery,  now  returned  to 
England,  had  led  an  aggressive  ex 
pedition  against  the  Cherokees.  Cer 
tain  it  is,  the  accounts  of  their  ex- 
218 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

periences  are  many  and  varied — only 
in  all  the  character  of  their  terrible 
enemy,  the  powerful  and  warlike  Cher 
okee,  stands  out  as  incontrovertible  as 
eternity,  as  immutable  as  Fate.  Hence 
there  were  no  stragglers,  no  deserters. 
In  a  compact  body,  while  the  rain  fell, 
and  the  torrents  swelled  the  streams 
till  the  fords  became  almost  imprac 
ticable,  the  little  army,  as  with  a 
single  impulse,  pressed  stanchly  on 
through  the  mist-filled,  sodden  avenues 
of  the  primeval  woods.  To  be  out  of 
sight  for  an  instant  of  that  long,  thin 
column  of  soldiers  risked  far  more 
than  death  —  capture,  torture,  the 
flame,  the  knife,  all  the  extremity  of 
anguish  that  the  ingenuity  of  savage 
malice  could  devise  and  human  flesh 
endure.  But  although  day  by  day 
the  thunder  cracked  among  the 
branches  of  the  dripping  trees  and 
reverberated  from  the  rocks  of  the 
219 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

craggy  defiles,  and  keen  swift  blades 
of  lightning  at  short  intervals  thrust 
through  the  lowering  clouds,  almost 
always  near  sunset  long  level  lines  of 
burnished  golden  beams  began  to 
glance  through  the  wild  woodland 
ways ;  a  mocking-bird  would  burst  into 
song  from  out  the  dense  coverts  of  the 
laurel  on  the  slope  of  a  mountain  hard 
by;  the  sky  would  show  blue  over 
head,  and  glimmer  red  through  the 
low-hanging  boughs  toward  the  west ; 
and  the  troops  would  pitch  their  tents 
under  the  restored  peace  of  the  ele 
ments  and  the  placid  v/hite  stars. 

A  jolly  camp  it  must  have  been. 
Stories  of  it  have  come  down  to  this 
day  —  of  its  songs,  loud,  hilarious, 
patriotic,  doubtless  rudely  musical;  of 
its  wild  pranks,  of  that  boyish  and 
jocose  kind  denominated  by  sober  and 
unsympathetic  elders,  ' ' horse  -  play' ' ; 
of  the  intense  delight  experienced  by 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

the  savage  allies,  the  Chickasaws,  who 
participated  in  the  campaign,  in  wit 
nessing  the  dances  of  the  young  High 
landers — how  "  their  sprightly  manner 
in  this  exercise,"  and  athletic  grace 
appealed  to  the  Indians;  how  the 
sound  of  the  bag-pipes  thrilled  them ; 
how  they  admired  that  ancient  martial 
garb,  the  kilt  and  plaid. 

No  admiration,  however  extrava 
gant  of  Scotch  customs,  character,  or 
appearance,  seemed  excessive  in  the 
eyes  of  Lieutenant-Colonel  James 
Grant,  so  readily  did  his  haughty, 
patriotic  pride  acquiesce  in  it,  and 
the  Indian's  evident  appreciation  of 
the  national  superiority  of  the  Scotch 
to  all  other  races  of  men  duly  served 
to  enhance  his  opinion  of  the  mental 
acumen  of  the  Chickasaws.  This 
homage,  however,  failed  to  mollify  or 
modify  the  estimate  of  the  noble  red- 
man  already  formed  by  a  certain  sub- 


221 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

altern,  Lieutenant  Ronald  MacDon- 
nell. 

"The  Lord  made  him  an  Indian — 
and  an  Indian  he  will  remain,"  he 
would  remark  sagely. 

The  policy  of  the  British  govern 
ment  to  utilize  in  its  armies  the  martial 
strength  of  semi-savage  dependencies, 
elsewhere  so  conspicuously  exploited, 
was  never  successful  with  these  Indians 
save  as  the  tribes  might  fight  in 
predatory  bands  in  their  own  wild 
way,  although  much  effort  was  made 
looking  toward  regular  enlistments. 
And,  in  fact,  the  futility  of  all  en 
deavors  to  reduce  the  savage  to  a 
reasonable  conformity  to  the  milita 
rism  of  the  camp,  to  inculcate  the 
details  of  the  drill,  a  sense  of  the 
authority  of  officers,  the  obliga 
tions  of  out-posts,  the  heinousness  of 
"running  the  guard,"  the  necessity 
of  submitting  to  the  prescribed  punish- 

222 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

ments  and  penalties  for  disobedience 
of  orders, — all  rendered  this  ethno 
graphic  saw  so  marvelously  apt,  that 
it  seemed  endowed  with  more  wisdom 
than  Ronald  MacDonnell  was  popu 
larly  supposed  to  possess.  But  such 
logic  as  he  could  muster  operated 
within  contracted  limits.  If  the  Lord 
had  not  fitted  a  man  to  be  a  soldier, 
why  —  there  Ronald  MacDonnell's 
extremest  flights  of  speculation  paused. 
In  the  scheme  of  his  narrow-minded 
Cosmos  the  human  creature  was  repre 
sented  by  two  simple  species:  unim 
portant,  unindividualized  man  in  gen 
eral,  and  that  race  of  exalted  beings 
known  as  soldiers.  He  was  a  good 
drill,  and  with  the  instinct  of  a  born 
disciplinarian  in  his  survey,  he  would 
often  watch  the  Chickasaws  with  this 
question  in  his  mind, — sometimes  when 
they  were  on  the  march,  and  their 
endurance,  their  activity,  the  admir- 
223 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

able  proportions  of  their  bodies,  their 
free  and  vigorous  gait  were  in 
evidence;  sometimes  in  the  swift 
efficiency  of  their  scouting  parties 
when  their  strategy  and  courage  and 
wily  caution  were  most  marked; 
sometimes  in  the  relaxations  of  the 
camp  when  their  keen  responsive  in 
terest  in  the  quirks  and  quips  of  the 
soldier  at  play  attested  their  mental 
receptivity  and  plastic  impressibility. 
Their  gayety  seemed  a  docile,  mun 
dane,  civilized  sort  of  mirth  when  they 
would  stand  around  in  the  ring  with  the 
other  soldiers  to  watch  the  agile  High 
landers  in  the  inspiring  martial  postur 
ing  of  the  sword  dance,  with  their  flut 
tering  kilts  and  glittering  blades,  their 
free  gestures, their  long, sinewy,  bound 
ing  steps,  as  of  creatures  of  no  weight, 
while  the  bag-pipes  skirled,  and  the 
great  campfire  flared,  and  the  light  and 
shadows  fluctuated  in  the  dense  prime- 
224 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

val  woods,  half  revealing,  half  conceal 
ing  the  lines  of  tents,  of  picketed  horses, 
of  stacks  of  arms,  of  other  flaring 
camp-fires — even  the  pastoral  sugges 
tion  in  the  distance  of  the  horned 
heads  of  the  beef-herd.  But  what 
ever  the  place  or  scene,  Ronald  Mac- 
Donnell's  conclusion  was  essentially 
the  same.  "The  Lord  made  him  an 
Indian,"  he  would  say,  with  an  air 
of  absolute  finality. 

He  was  a  man  of  few  words, — 
of  few  ideas;  these  were  strictly 
military  and  of  an  appreciated 
value.  He  was  considered  a  promising 
young  officer,  and  was  often  detailed  to 
important  and  hazardous  duty.  And 
if  he  had  naught  to  say  at  mess,  and 
seldom  could  perceive  a  joke  unless 
of  a  phenomenal  pertinence  and  bril 
liancy,  broadly  aflare  so  to  speak  under 
his  nose,  he  was  yet  a  boon  compan 
ion,  and  could  hold  his  own  like  a 
225 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

Scotchman  when  many  a  brighter  man 
was  under  the  table.  He  had  a  certain 
stanch,  unquestioning  sense  of  duty  and 
loyalty,  and  manifested  an  unchange 
able  partisanship  in  his  friendship,  of  a 
silent  and  undemonstrative  order,  that 
caused  his  somewhat  exaggerated  view 
of  his  own  dignity  to  be  respected, 
for  it  was  intuitively  felt  that  his  per 
sonal  antagonism  would  be  of  the 
same  tenacious,  unreasoning,  requiting 
quality,  and  should  not  be  needlessly 
roused.  He  was  still  very  young, 
although  he  had  seen  much  service. 
He  was  tall  and  stalwart ;  he  had  the 
large,  raw-boned  look  which  is  usually 
considered  characteristic  of  the  Scotch 
build,  and  was  of  great  muscular 
strength,  but  carrying  not  one  ounce 
of  superfluous  flesh.  Light-colored 
hair,  almost  flaxen,  indeed,  with  a 
strong  tendency  to  curl  in  the  shorter 
locks  that  lay  in  tendrils  on  his 
226 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

forehead,  clear,  contemplative  blue 
eyes,  a  fixed  look  of  strength,  of 
reserves  of  unfailing  firmness  about  the 
well-cut  lips,  a  good  brick-red  flush 
acquired  from  many  and  many  a  day  of 
marching  in  the  wind,  and  the  rain,  and 
the  sun — this  is  the  impression  one 
may  take  from  his  portrait.  He  could 
be  as  noisy  and  boisterously  gay  as  the 
other  young  officers,  but  somehow 
his  hilarity  was  of  a  physical  sort,  as  of 
the  sheer  joy  of  living,  and  moving, 
and  being  so  strong.  One  might 
wonder  what  impressions  he  received 
in  the  long  term  of  his  service  in 
Canada  and  the  Colonies  —  these 
strange  new  lands  so  alien  to  all  his 
earlier  experience.  One  might  doubt  if 
he  saw  how  fair  of  face  was  this  most 
lovely  of  regions,  the  Cherokee  country ; 
if  the  primeval  forests,  the  splendid 
tangles  of  blooming  rhododendron,  the 
crystal-clear,  rock-bound  rivers  were 
227 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

asserted  in  his  consciousness  other 
wise  than  as  the  technical  "  obstacle" 
for  troops  on  the  march.  As  to  the 
imposing  muster  of  limitless  ranks 
of  mountains  surrounding  the  little 
army  on  every  side,  they  did  not 
remind  him  of  the  hills  of  Scotland, 
as  the  sheer  sense  of  great  heights  and 
wild  ravines  and  flashing  cataracts  sug 
gested  reminiscences  to  the  others. 
"There  is  no  gorse,"  he  remarked  of 
these  august  ranges,  with  their  rich 
growths  of  gigantic  forest  trees,  as  if 
from  the  beginning  of  the  earliest  eras 
of  dry  land, — and  the  mess  called  him 
"Gorse"  until  the  incident  was  for 
gotten. 

For  the  last  three  days  the  com 
mand,  consisting  of  some  twenty-six 
hundred  men,  had  been  advancing  by 
forced  marches,  despite  the  deterrent 
weather.  Setting  out  on  the  /th  of 
June  from  Fort  Prince  George,  where 
228 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

the  army  had  rested  for  ten  days  after 
the  march  of  three  hundred  miles  from 
Charlestown,  Colonel  Grant  encount 
ered  a  season  of  phenomenal  rain-fall. 
Moreover,  the  lay  of  the  land, — long 
stretches  of  broken,  rocky  country, 
gashed  by  steep  ravines  and  intersected 
by  foaming,  swollen  torrents,  deep 
and  dangerous  to  ford,  encompassed  on 
every  hand  by  rugged  heights  and  nar 
row,  intricate,  winding  valleys,  afford 
ing  always  but  a  restricted  passage, — 
offered  peculiar  advantages  for  attack. 
Colonel  Grant,  aware  that  these  craggy 
defiles  could  be  held  against  him  even 
by  an  inferior  force,  that  a  smart 
demonstration  on  the  flank  would  so 
separate  the  thin  line  of  his  troops  that 
one  division  would  hardly  be  available 
to  come  to  the  support  of  the  other, 
that  an  engagement  here  and  now  would 
result  in  great  loss  of  life,  if  not  an 
actual  and  decisive  repulse,  was  urging 
229 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

the  march  forward  at  the  utmost  speed 
possible  to  reach  more  practicable 
ground  for  an  encounter,  regardless 
how  the  pace  might  harass  the  men. 
But  they  were  responding  gallantly  to 
the  demands  on  their  strength,  and 
this  was  what  he  had  hardly  dared  to 
hope.  For  during  the  previous  win 
ter,  when  General  Amherst  ordered 
the  British  regulars  south  by  sea, 
many  of  them  immediately  upon 
their  arrival  in  Charlestown,  suc 
cumbed  to  an  illness  occasioned  by 
drinking  the  brackish  water  of  certain 
wells  of  the  city.  Coming  in  response 
to  the  urgent  appeals  of  the  province 
to  the  commander-in-chief  of  the  army 
to  defend  the  frontier  against  the  tur 
bulent  Cherokees  who  ravaged  the  bor 
ders,  the  British  force  were  looked  upon 
as  public  deliverers,  and  the  people  of 
the  city  took  the  ill  soldiers  from  the 
camps  into  their  own  private  dwell- 
230 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

ings,  nursing  them  until  they  were 
quite  restored.  No  troops  could  have 
better  endured  the  extreme  hardships 
which  they  successfully  encountered 
in  their  march  northward.  So  swift 
an  advance  seemed  almost  impossible. 
The  speed  of  the  movement  apparently 
had  not  been  anticipated,  even  by  that 
wily  and  watchful  enemy,  the  Chero- 
kees.  It  has  been  said  that  at  this 
critical  juncture  the  Indians  had  failed 
to  receive  the  supply  of  ammunition 
from  the  French  which  they  had 
anticipated,  although  a  quantity,  in 
adequate  for  the  emergency,  however, 
reached  them  a  few  days  later.  At  all 
events  Colonel  Grant  was  nearly  free  of 
the  district  where  disaster  so  menaced 
him  before  he  received  a  single  shot. 
He  had  profited  much  by  his  several 
campaigns  in  this  country  since  he  led 
that  rash,  impetuous,  and  bloody  de 
monstration  against  Fort  Duquesne, 
231 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

in  which  he  himself  was  captured  with 
nineteen  of  his  officers,  and  his  com 
mand  was  almost  cut  to  pieces.  Now 
his  scouts  patrolled  the  woods  in  every 
direction.  His  vanguard  of  Indian 
allies  under  command  of  a  British 
officer  was  supported  by  a  body  of 
fifty  rangers  and  one  hundred  and  fifty 
light  infantry.  Every  precaution 
against  surprise  was  taken. 

Late  one  afternoon,  however,  the 
main  body  wavered  with  a  sudden 
shock.  The  news  came  along  the 
line.  The  Cherokees  were  upon  them — 
upon  the  flank?  No;  in  force  fiercely 
assaulting  the  rear-guard.  It  was  as 
Grant  had  feared  impossible  in  these 
narrow  defiles  to  avail  himself  of  his 
strength,  to  face  about,  to  form,  to 
give  battle.  The  advance  was  ordered 
to  continue  steadily  onward, — difficult 
indeed,  with  the  sound  of  the  musketry 
and  shouting  from  the  rear,  now  louder, 
232 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

now  fainter,  as  the  surges  of  attack 
ebbed  and  flowed. 

A  strong  party  was  detached  to 
reinforce  the  rear-guard.  But  again 
and  again  the  Cherokees  made  a  spir 
ited  dash,  seeking  to  cut  off  the  beef 
herd,  fighting  almost  in  the  open, 
with  as  definite  and  logical  a  military 
plan  of  destroying  the  army  by  cap 
turing  its  supplies  in  that  wild  country, 
hundreds  of  miles  from  adequate  suc 
cor,  as  if  devised  by  men  trained  in  all 
the  theories  of  war. 

"The  Lord  made  him — "  muttered 
Ronald  MacDonnell,  in  uncertainty, 
recognizing  the  coherence  of  this  mil 
itary  maneuver,  and  said  no  more. 
Whether  or  not  his  theory  was  reduced 
to  that  simple  incontrovertible  propo 
sition,  thus  modified  by  the  soldier 
like  demonstration  on  the  supply  train, 
his  cogitations  were  cut  short  by  more 
familiar  ideas,  when  in  command  of 
233 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

thirty-two  picked  men,  he  was  ordered 
to  make  a  detour  through  the  defiles 
of  a  narrow  adjacent  ravine,  and,  issu 
ing  suddenly  thence,  seek  to  fall  upon 
the  flank  of  the  enemy  and  surprise, 
rout,  and  pursue  him.  This  was  the 
kind  of  thing,  that  with  all  his  limita 
tions,  Ronald  MacDonnell  most  defi 
nitely  understood.  This  set  a-quiver, 
with  keenest  sensitiveness,  every  fiber 
of  his  phlegmatic  nature,  called  out 
every  working  capacity  of  his  slow, 
substantial  brains,  made  his  quiet 
pulses  bound.  He  looked  the  men 
over  strictly  as  they  dressed  their 
ranks,  and  then  he  stepped  swiftly  for 
ward  toward  them,  for  it  was  the  habit 
to  speak  a  few  words  of  encourage 
ment  to  the  troops  about  to  enter  on 
any  extra-hazardous  duty,  so  daunting 
seemed  the  very  sight  of  the  Cherokees 
and  the  sound  of  their  blood-curdling 
whoops. 

234 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

"Hech,  callants!"  he  cried,  in  his 
simple  joy;  and  so  full  of  valiant  ela 
tion  was  the  exclamation  that  its  spirit 
flared  up  amongst  the  wild  "petticoat- 
men,"  who  cheered  as  lustily  as  if 
they  had  profited  by  the  best  of  logic 
and  the  most  finely  flavored  eloquence. 
Ronald  MacDonnell  felt  that  he  had 
acquitted  himself  well  in  the  usual  way, 
and  was  under  the  impression  that 
he  had  made  a  speech  to  the  troops. 

Now  climbing  the  crags  of  the 
verges  of  the  ravine,  now  deep  in  its 
trough,  following  the  banks  of  its  flash 
ing  torrent,  they  made  their  way — 
at  a  brisk  double-quick  when  the 
ground  would  admit  of  such  prog 
ress — and  when  they  must,  painfully 
dragging  one  another  through  the 
dense  jungles  of  the  dripping  laurel, 
always  holding  well  together,  remem 
bering  the  ever-frightful  menace  of  the 
Cherokee  to  the  laggard.  The  rain 
235 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

fell  no  longer;  the  sunlight  slanted  on 
the  summit  of  the  rocks  above  their 
heads ;  the  wind  was  blowing  fresh  and 
free,  and  the  mists  scurried  before  it; 
now  and  again  on  the  steep  slopes 
as  the  vapors  shifted,  the  horned 
heads  of  cattle  showed  with  a  familiar 
reminiscent  effect  as  of  mountain 
kyloes  at  home.  But  these  were  great 
stall-fed  steers,  running  furiously  at 
large,  bellowing,  frightened  by  the 
tumults  of  the  conflict,  plunging  along 
the  narrow  defiles,  almost  dashing 
headlong  into  the  little  party  of  High 
landers  who  were  now  quickening  their 
pace,  for  the  crack  of  dropping  shots 
and  once  and  again  a  volley,  the 
whoopings  of  the  savages  and  shouts 
of  the  soldiers,  betokened  that  the 
scene  of  carnage  was  near. 

Only  a  few  of  the  cattle  were  astray 
for,    as     MacDonnell     and     his    men 
emerged  into  a  little  level  glade,  they 
236 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

could  see  in  the  distance  that  the  herd 
was  held  well  together  by  the  cattle- 
guard,  while  the  reinforcements  sought 
to  check  the  Cherokees,  who,  although 
continually  sending  forth  their  ter 
ribly  accurate  masked  fire  from  behind 
trees  and  rocks,  now  and  again  with 
a  mounted  body  struck  out  boldly  for 
the  supply  train,  assaulting  with  tre 
mendous  impetuosity  the  rear-guard. 
So  still  and  clear  was  the  evening  air 
that,  despite  the  clamors  of  battle, 
MacDonnell  could  hear  the  commands, 
could  see  in  the  distance  the  lines  rally 
ing  on  the  reserve  forming  into  solid 
masses,  as  the  mounted  savages  hurled 
down  upon  them;  could  even  discern 
where  rallies  by  platoon  had  been 
earlier  made  judging  from  the  position 
of  the  bodies  of  the  dead  soldiers,  lying 
in  a  half-suggested  circle. 

The    next  moment,  with  a   ringing 
shout  and  a  smartly    delivered  volley 
237 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

of  musketry  the  Highlanders  flung 
themselves  from  out  the  mouth  of  the 
ravine.  The  Cherokee  horsemen  were 
going  down  like  so  many  ten-pins. 
The  first  detachment  of  reinforce 
ments  set  up  a  wild  shout  of  joy  to 
perceive  the  support,  then  flung  them 
selves  on  their  knees  to  load  while  a 
second  volley  from  the  Highlanders 
passed  over  their  heads.  The  rear 
guard  had  formed  anew,  faced  about, 
and  were  advancing  in  the  opposite 
direction.  The  Cherokee  horsemen, 
almost  surrounded,  gave  way ;  the  fire 
of  the  others  in  ambush  wavered, 
slackened,  became  only  a  dropping 
shot  here  and  there,  then  sunk  to 
silence.  And  the  woods  were  filled 
with  a  wild  rout,  with  the  irregular 
musketry  of  the  troops  frenzied  with 
sudden  success,  out  of  line,  out  of 
hearing,  out  of  reason  as  they  pursued 
the  unmounted  savages,  dislodged  at 
238 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

last  from  their  masked  position;  with 
the  bugles  blowing,  the  bag-pipes 
playing;  with  the  unheard,  disregarded 
orders  shouted  by  the  officers;  with 
that  thrilling  cry  of  the  Highlanders 
"Claymore!  Claymore!"  the  sun  flash 
ing  on  their  drawn  broadswords  as 
they  gained  on  the  flying  Indians, 
themselves  as  fleet; — a  confused,  dis 
ordered  panorama  of  shadows  and  sun 
light,  of  men  in  red  coats  and  men  in 
blue,  and  men  in  tartan,  and  savage 
Chickasaws  and  Cherokees  in  their  wild 
barbaric  array. 

It  had  been  desired  that  the  repulse 
should  be  fierce  and  decisive,  the  pur 
suit  bloody  and  relentless.  The  supply 
train  represented  the  life  of  the  army, 
and  it  was  essential  to  deter  the  Cher 
okees  from  readily  renewing  the  attack 
on  so  vital  a  point.  But  these  ends 
compassed,  every  effort  of  the  officers 
was  concentrated  on  the  necessity  of 
239 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

recalling  the  scattered  parties.  Night 
was  coming  on ;  it  was  a  strange  and  an 
alien  country;  the  skulking  Cherokees 
were  doubtless  in  force  somewhere  in 
the  dense  coverts  of  the  woods,  and  the 
vicarious  terrors  of  the  capture  that 
menaced  the  valorous  and  venturesome 
soldiers  began  to  press  heavily  upon 
the  officers.  Again  and  again  the 
bugles  summoned  the  stragglers,  the 
rich  golden  notes  drifting  through  the 
wilderness,  rousing  a  thousand  insistent 
echoes  from  many  a  dumb  rock  thus 
endowed  with  a  voice.  Certain  of  the 
more  solicitous  officers  sent  out,  with 
much  caution,  small  details,  gathering 
together  the  stragglers  as  they  went. 

How  Ronald  MacDonnell  became 
separated  from  one  of  these  parties  was 
never  very  clear  afterward  to  his  own 
mind.  His  attention  was  attracted 
first  by  the  sight  of  a  canny  Scotch 
face  or  two,  which  he  knew,  lying 
240 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

very  low  and  very  still;  he  suffered  a 
pang  which  he  could  never  evade. 
These  were  the  men  who  had  followed 
him  to  the  finish,  and  he  took  out  his 
note-book  and  holding  it  against  a 
tree,  made  a  memorandum  of  the 
locality  for  the  burial  parties,  and  then, 
with  great  particularity,  of  the  names, 
"For  the  auld  folks  at  hame, "  and  he 
quoted,  mournfully  a  line  of  the  old 
Gaelic  lament  much  sung  by  the  Scotch 
emigrants ' '  Ha  til  mi  tulidti '  (we  return 
no  more),  which  was  sadly  true  of  the 
Highland  soldiery  in  the  British  ranks, 
— an  instance  is  given  of  a  regiment  of 
twelve  hundred  men  who  served  in 
America  of  whom  only  seventy-six  ever 
saw  their  native  hills  again.  Then, 
briskly  putting  up  the  book  he  went  on 
a  bit,  glancing  sharply  about  for  the  liv 
ing  of  his  command,  even  now  thrusting 
their  reckless  heads  into  the  den  of  the 
Cherokee  lion.  "Ill-fau'rd  chields, 
241 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

and  serve  them  right,"  he  said,  strug 
gling  with  the  dismay  in  his  heart  for 
their  sake. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  realize  how  far 
those  active  strides  were  carrying  him 
from  the  command.  In  fact  the  march 
continued  that  night  until  the  sinking 
of  the  moon,  the  army  pressing  reso 
lutely  on  through  the  broken  region 
of  the  mountain  defiles.  MacDonnell 
noted  no  Cherokee  in  sight,  that  is  to 
say,  not  a  living  one.  Several  of  the 
dead  lay  on  the  ground,  their  still  faces 
already  bearing  that  wan,  listening, 
attentive  look  of  death;  they  were 
heedless  indeed  of  the  hands  that  had 
rifled  them  of  their  possessions,  for 
there  were  a  few  of  the  Chickasaw 
allies  intent  on  plunder. 

Presently  as  he  went  down  a  sunset 

glade,    MacDonnell    saw    advancing   a 

notable     figure,     a    Chickasaw    chief, 

tall,    lithe,    active,    muscular,   with    a 

242 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

gait  of  athletic  grace.  He  was  wear 
ing  the  warrior's  "crown,"  a  tower 
ing  head-dress  in  the  form  of  a  circlet 
of  white  swan's  feathers  of  graduated 
height,  standing  fifteen  inches  high 
in  front,  and  at  the  bottom  woven 
into  a  band  of  swan's  down — all  so 
deftly  constructed  that  the  method 
of  the  manufacture  of  the  whole  could 
not  be  discerned,  it  is  said,  without 
taking  it  into  the  hand.  To  the 
fringed  borders  of  a  sort  of  sleeve 
less  hunting  shirt  of  otter-skin  and 
his  buckskin  leggings  bits  of  shells 
were  attached  and  glittered,  and 
this  betokened  his  wealth,  for  these 
beads  represented  the  money  of 
the  Indians,  with  the  unique  ad 
vantage  that  when  not  in  active  circu 
lation,  one's  currency  could  be  worn 
as  an  ornament.  It  has  been  generally 
known  under  the  generic  name  "wam 
pum,"  although  several  of  the  South- 
243 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

ern  tribes  called  it  "roanoke"  or 
' '  pe-ack. ' '  It  was  made  in  tiny,  tubular 
beads,  of  about  an  inch  in  length,  of 
the  conch  and  mussel-shells,  requiring 
the  illimitable  leisure  of  the  Indian 
to  polish  the  cylinder  to  the  desired 
glister,  and  drill  through  it  the  hol 
low  no  larger  than  a  knitting-needle 
might  fill.  His  chest  and  arms  were 
painted  symbolically  in  red  and  blue 
arabesques,  and  his  face,  of  a  proud, 
alert  cast  was  smeared  with  vermilion 
and  white.  All  his  flesh  glistened 
and  shone  with  the  polishing  of  some 
unguent.  MacDonnell  had  heard  a 
deal  of  preaching  in  his  time  of  the 
Scotch  Presbyterian  persuasion,  and 
in  the  dearth  of  expression  Biblical 
phrases  sometimes  came  to  him.  "Oil 
to  give  him  a  cheerful  countenance," 
he  quoted,  still  gazing  at  the  grim  face 
and  figure.  So  intently  he  gazed,  in 
deed,  that  the  Indian  hesitated,  doubt- 
244 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

ing  if  the  Highland  officer  recog 
nized  him  as  a  friend.  Breaking  off  a 
branch  of  a  green  locust  hard  by  and 
holding  it  aloft  at  one  side,  after  the 
manner  of  a  peaceful  embassy,  he 
continued  his  stately  advance  until 
within  a  yard  of  the  silent  Scotch 
man,  also  advancing.  Then  they  both 
paused. 

"  Ish  la  chu,  Angonaf  said  the 
Indian,  in  a  sonorous  voice.  (Are  you 
come,  a  friend?) 

With  the  true  Briton's  aversion  to 
palaver,  intensified  by  his  own  inca 
pacity  for  its  practice,  Ronald  Mac- 
Donnell  discovered  little  affinity  for 
barbaric  ceremonial.  Nevertheless  he 
was  constrained  by  the  punctilious 
sense  that  a  gentleman  must  reply  to 
a  courteous  greeting  in  the  manner 
expected  of  him.  His  experience  with 
the  Chickasaws  had  acquainted  him 
with  the  appropriate  response. 
245 


CHOOLAH,    THE   CHICKASAW 


,  t 


^  Arabre — 0,  Angona"  (I  am  come, 
a  friend)  he  returned,  a  trifle  sheep 
ishly,  and  without  the  ore  rotundo 
effect  of  the  elocution  of  the  Indian. 

The  young  chief  looked  hard  at 
him,  evidently  desirous  of  engaging 
him  in  conversation,  unaware  that  it 
was  a  game  at  which  the  Scotchman 
was  incapacitated  for  playing. 

"Big  battle,"  he  observed,  after  a 
doubtful  interval. 

"A  bonny  ploy,"  assented  the 
officer,  who  had  seen  much  bigger 
ones. 

Then  they  both  paused  and  gazed  at 
each  other. 

"Cherokee — heap  fight!  Big  damn 
— O!"  remarked  Choolah,  the  Fox, 
applausively. 

The  use  of  this  most  vocative  vowel 

as  an  intensitive  suffix  is  one  of  the 

peculiar  methods  of    emphasis  in  the 

animated  Chickasaw  language — for  in- 

246 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

stance  the  word  Yanas-O  means  the 
biggest  kind  of  buffalo  (yanasa  signify 
ing  buffalo  in  all  the  dialects).  Choolah 
conversing  in  the  cold  and  phlegmatic 
English  evidently  felt  the  need  of  these 
intensitives,  and  although  a  certain 
strong  condemnatory  monosyllable  has 
been  usually  found  sufficiently  satisfy 
ing  to  the  feelings  of  English  speaking 
men  seeking  an  expletive,  the  poor 
Aboriginal,  wishing  to  be  more  wicked 
than  he  was,  discovered  its  capacity 
for  expansion  with  the  prefix  "Big" 
and  devised  an  added  emphasis  with 
the  explosive  final  "O." 

"The  Cherokee  warriors?  Pretty 
men!"  said  MacDonnell  laconically, 
according  the  enemy's  valor  the  meed 
of  a  soldier's  praise.  "Very  pretty 
men." 

Choolah  had  never  piqued  himself 
on  his  command  of  the  English  lan 
guage,  but  he  thought  now  his 
247 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

fluency  was  at  least  equal  to  that  of 
this  Scotchman,  who  really  seemed  to 
speak  no  tongue  at  all.  As  to  the 
French — of  that  speech,  ookproo-se 
(forever  despised)  Choolah  would  not 
learn  a  syllable,  so  deadly  a  hatred  did 
the  Chickasaw  tribe  bear  the  whole 
Gallic  nation,  dating  back  indeed 
through  many  wars  and  feuds,  to  the 
massacre  by  Choctaws  of  certain  of  the 
tribe  in  1704,  while  under  the  protec 
tion  of  Boisbriant  with  a  French  safe 
guard,  the  deed  suspected  to  have 
been  committed  if  not  at  the  instiga 
tion,  at  least  by  the  permission  of  the 
French  commander  who,  however, 
himself  wounded  in  the  affray,  was 
beyond  doubt,  helpless  in  the  matter. 

1  'Heap  tired?"  ventured  Choolah, 
at  last,  pining  for  conversation,  his 
searching  eyes  on  the  young  High 
lander's  face. 

Ronald  MacDonnell  laughed  a  proud 
248 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

negation.  He  held  out  one  of  his 
long,  heavily  muscled  arms,  with  the 
fist  clenched,  that  the  Indian  might 
feel,  through  his  sleeve,  the  swelling 
cords  that  betokened  his  strength. 

But  it  was  Choolah's  trait  to  cherish 
vanity  in  physical  endowment,  not  to 
foster  it  in  others.  He  only  said, 
"Good!  Swim  river." 

"Why  swim  the  river?"  demanded 
the  Lieutenant. 

Then  Choolah  detailed  that  through 
a  scout  he  had  thrown  out  he  had 
learned  that  Colonel  Grant's  force,  still 
pushing  on,  had  succeeded  in  crossing 
the  Tennessee  river,  the  herd  of  cattle 
and  the  pack  animals  giving  incredible 
trouble  in  the  fords,  deeply  swollen  by 
the  unprecedented  rains.  It  suddenly 
occurred  to  MacDonnell  that,  in  view  of 
the  passage  of  the  troops  beyond  this 
barrier, much  caution  would  be  requisite 
in  endeavoring  to  rejoin  the  main 
249 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

body,  lest  they  fall  into  the  clutch  of 
the  Cherokees  on  the  hither  side,  who 
doubtless  would  seek  the  capture  of 
parties  of  stragglers  by  carefully 
patrolling  the  banks.  He  suggested 
this  to  Choolah.  The  Indian  listened 
for  only  a  moment  with  a  look  of  deep 
conviction;  then  suddenly  calling  to 
five  Chickasaws  who  were  still  engaged 
in  parceling  out  the  booty  they  had 
brought  away  from  the  dead  bodies, 
he  beckoned  to  MacDonnell,  and 
they  set  out  on  a  line  parallel  with 
the  river,  in  Indian  file,  in  a  long, 
steady  trot,  the  Scotchman  among 
them,  half  willing,  half  dismayed, 
repudiating  with  the  distaste  of  a 
prosaic,  unimaginative  mind  every 
evidence  of  barbarism ;  every  unaccus 
tomed  thing  seemed  grotesque  and 
uncouth,  and  lacking  all  in  lacking  the 
cachet  of  civilization.  Each  man,  as 
he  ran  lightly  along  that  marshy 
250 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

turf,  almost  without  noting,  as  if 
by  instinct  placed  his  feet  upon  the 
steps  of  the  man  in  advance;  thus, 
although  seven  persons  passed  over 
the  ground,  the  largest  man  coming 
last,  the  footprints  would  show  as  if 
but  one  had  gone  that  way.  Ronald 
MacDonnell,  quick  at  all  military  or 
athletic  exercises,  readily  achieved 
conformity,  although  the  barbarous 
procedure  compromised  his  sensitive 
dignity,  and  he  growled  between  his 
teeth  something  about  a  commissioned 
officer  and  a  "demented  goose-step," 
as  if  he  found  the  practice  of  the  one 
by  the  other  a  painful  derogation. 
The  moon  came  into  the  sky  while 
still  they  sped  along  in  this  silent, 
crafty  way,  the  wind  in  their  faces,  the 
pervasive  scents  of  the  damp,  flowery 
June  night  filling  every  breath  they 
drew  with  the  impalpable  essences  of 
sylvan  fragrance. 

251 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

Even  with  the  dangers  that  lurked 
at  their  heels,  the  Indians  would 
never  leap  over  a  log,  for  this  was 
unlucky,  but  made  long  detours  around 
fallen  trees,  till  Ronald  MacDonnell 
could  have  belabored  them  with  hearty 
good-will,  and  but  for  the  fear  of  cap 
ture  by  the  savage  Cherokees,  could 
not  have  restrained  himself  from  crying 
aloud  for  rage  for  the  waste  of  pre 
cious  time.  He  had  even  less  patience 
with  their  slow  and  respectful  avoid 
ance  of  stepping  on  a  snake  sinuously 
skirting  their  way,  since,  according  to 
their  belief,  this  would  provoke  the  de 
struction  of  their  own  kindred  by  the 
serpent's  brothers;  Choolah's  warn 
ing  to  the  other  Chickasaws  in  the  half- 
suppressed  hiss — liSeente!  Seente!" 
(snake!)  sounded  far  and  sibilant  in 
the  quiet  twilight.  The  Cherokee 
tribe  also  were  wont  to  avoid  with 
great  heed  any  injury  to  snakes,  and 
252 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

spoke  of  them  always  in  terms  of  crafty 
compliment  as  "the  bright  old  inhabi 
tants." 

The  shadows  grew  darker,  more 
definite;  the  moon,  of  a  whiter  glister 
now,  thoughtful,  passive,  very  melan 
choly,  illumined  the  long  vistas  of  the 
woods,  and  although  verging  toward 
the  west,  limited  the  area  of  darkness 
that  had  become  their  protection. 
More  than  once  Choolah  had  glanced 
up  doubtfully  at  its  clear  effulgence, 
for  the  sky  was  unclouded  and  the 
constellations  were  only  a  vague  be- 
spanglement  of  the  blue  deeps;  coming 
at  length  to  a  dense  covert  among  the 
blooming  laurel,  he  crept  in  among 
the  boughs,  that  overhung  a  shallow 
grotto  by  the  river  bank.  MacDonnell 
followed  his  example,  and  the  group 
soon  were  in  the  cleft  of  the  rocks  under 
the  dense  shade,  the  Scotchman  alone 
among  the  Indians,  with  such  dubious 
253 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

sentiments  as  a  good  hound  might 
entertain  were  he  thrust,  muzzled, 
among  his  natural  enemies,  the  bears. 

But  the  Chickasaws,  as  ever,  were 
earnestly,  ardently  friendly  to  the 
British.  There  was  no  surly  reserva 
tion  in  Choolah's  mind  as  he  reached 
forth  his  hand  and  laid  it  upon  the 
muscular  arm  of  the  Scotchman. 

"Good  arm,"  he  said,  reverting  to 
the  young  Highlander's  boast.  ' '  But — 
big  damn — O ! — good  leg !  Heap  run ! " 
he  declared,  with  a  smothered  laugh, 
like  any  other  young  man's,  much  re 
sembling  indeed  the  affectionate  ridi 
cule  that  was  wont  to  go  around  the 
mess-table  at  Ronald's  unimaginative 
solemnities.  But  even  MacDonnell 
could  appreciate  the  jest  at  a  brave 
man's  activities,  and  he  laughed  in 
pleasant  accord  with  the  others. 

A  scout  that  they  had  thrown  out 
came  presently  creeping  back  under  the 
254 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

boughs  with  the  unwelcome  intelli 
gence  that  there  was  a  party  of  Chero- 
kees  a  little  higher  up  on  the  river,  a 
small  band  of  about  a  dozen  men,  seem 
ing  intent  on  holding  the  ford.  These 
were  stationary,  apparently,  but  lower 
down,  patrolling  the  banks,  were  groups 
here  and  there  beating  the  woods  for 
stragglers,  he  fancied.  As  yet,  how 
ever,  he  thought  they  had  no  pris 
oners.  Still,  their  suspicions  of  hidden 
soldiers  were  unallayed,  and  they  were 
keeping  very  quiet. 

The  scout  was  named  Oop-pa,  the 
Owl.  Although  himself  a  warrior  of 
note  he  was  of  a  far  lower  grade  of 
Chickasaw  than  Choolah,  in  personal 
quality  as  well  as  in  actual  rank.  In 
stead  of  manifesting  the  stanch  cour 
age  with  which  the  Indian  Fox 
hearkened  to  this  untoward  intelli 
gence,  the  alert  gathering  of  all 
his  forces  of  mind  and  body  for 
255 


CHOOLAH,    THE    CHICKASAW 

defense  and  for  victory,  or  to  make  his 
defeat  and  capture  an  exceedingly 
costly  and  bloody  triumph,  Oop-pa 
set  himself,  still  in  the  guise  of  impart 
ing  news,  to  sullenly  plaining.  The 
Highland  officer  listened  needfully  for 
in  these  repeated  campaigns  in  the 
valley  of  the  Tennessee  River  he  had 
become  somewhat  familiar  with  the  dia 
lect  of  the  Chickasaw  allies  and  in  a 
degree  they  comprehended  the  sound 
of  the  English,  and  thus  the  conversa 
tion  of  the  little  party  was  chiefly  held 
each  speaking  in  his  own  tongue.  The 
English  were  all  across  the  river, 
Oop-pa  declared.  The  red-coats,  and 
the  green-coats,  and  the  tartan-men, 
and  the  provincial  regiment — he  did 
not  believe  a  man  of  the  command 
was  left — but  them. 

"Well,    thank   God   for  that    much 
grace!"    exclaimed    Ronald   MacDon- 
nell,  strictly  limiting  his  gratitude;  he 
256 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

would  render  to  Providence  due  recog 
nition  for  his  own  rescue  when  it 
should  be  accomplished.  His  thank 
fulness,  however,  for  the  extent  of  the 
blessing  vouchsafed  was  very  genuine. 
His  military  conscience  had  been 
sharply  pricked  lest  he  might  have  lost 
some  of  his  own  men  in  the  confusion 
of  the  pursuit  and  the  subsequent 
separation  from  the  little  band. 

Oop-pa  looked  at  him  surlily.  For  his 
own  part,  the  Indian  said,  he  was  tired. 
Let  the  English  and  French  fight  one 
another.  They  had  left  him  to  be 
captured  by  the  Cherokees.  He  needed 
no  words.  White  man  hated  red  man. 
Big  Colonel  Grant  would  be  glad. 
Proud  Colonel  Grant — much  prouder 
than  an  Indian, — would  not  care  if  the 
terrible  Cherokees  tortured  and  burned 
his  faithful  Chickasaws.  Let  it  be  one 
of  his  own  honey  plaidsmen,  though, 
and  you  would  see  a  difference!  For 
257 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

haughty  Colonel  Grant  couldn't  abide 
for  such  little  accidents  to  befall  any 
of  his  pampered  tartan-men,  whom  he 
loved  as  if  they  were  his  children. 

With  the  word  the  world  changed 
suddenly  to  Ronald  MacDonnell.  For 
this — this  fearful  fate  menaced  him. 
His  was  not  a  pictorial  mind,  but  he 
had  a  sudden  vision  of  a  quiet  house 
on  a  wild  Scottish  coast  at  nightfall 
within  view  of  the  surging  Atlantic, 
with  all  the  decorous  habitudes  about 
it  of  a  kindly  old  home,  with  a  window 
aglow,  through  which  he  could  see,  as 
if  he  stood  just  outside,  a  familiar 
room  where  there  were  old  books 
and  candlelight,  and  the  flare  of 
fire,  and  the  collie  on  the  rug,  and 
the  soft  young  pink  cheeks  of  sis 
ters,  and  a  gray  head  with  a  pipe, 
intent  upon  the  columns  of  a  news 
paper  and  the  last  intelligence  from  far 
America, — and  oh!  in  the  ingle-nook, 
258 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

a  face  sweeter  for  many  a  wrinkle,  and 
eyes  dearer  for  the  loss  of  blue  beauty, 
and  soft  hands  grown  nerveless,  whose 
touch  nevertheless  he  could  feel  across 
the  ocean  on  his  hard,  weather-beaten 
young  cheek.  It  had  been  a  long 
time  since  this  manly  spirit  had  cried 
back  to  his  mother,  but  it  was  only  for 
a  moment.  If  his  fate  came  as  he 
feared,  he  hoped  they  might  never 
know  how  it  had  befallen.  And  the 
picture  dissolved. 

He  did  not  fail  to  listen  to  the  scorn 
ful  reproaches  with  which  Choolah  up 
braided  Oop-pa.  He  had  been  left  be 
cause  he  had  lingered  to  rob  the  slain 
Cherokees.  Look  at  the  load  there 
of  hunting-shirts  and  blankets,  and 
yes,  even  a  plaid  or  two  from  a  dead 
Highlander,  that  he  had  borne  with 
him  on  his  back  from  the  field  of  bat 
tle  ;  it  was  his  avarice  that  had  belated 
him. 

259 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

And  what  then,  Oop-pa  retorted, 
had  belated  Choolah  and  the  Highland 
officer?  They  had  brought  away 
nothing  but  their  own  hides,  which 
they  were  at  liberty  to  offer  to  the 
Cherokees,  as  early  as  they  might. 

The  freedom  of  Oop-pa's  tongue 
was  resented  as  evidently  by  Choolah  as 
by  Ronald,  but  the  Etissu  occupied  a 
semi-sacerdotal  position  toward  the 
chief,  a  war-captain,  the  decrees  of 
whose  religion  would  not  suffer  him  to 
touch  a  morsel  of  food  or  a  drop  of 
drink  while  on  the  war-path  unless 
administered  by  the  Etissu.  The 
utmost  abstemiousness  was  preserved 
among  the  Chickasaws  throughout,  and 
it  continued  a  marvel  to  the  British 
troops  how  men  could  march  or  fight 
so  ill-nourished,  practicing  all  the  fast 
ing  austerities  of  religious  observances. 
There  were  many  similar  customs  im 
plying  consecration  to  war  as  holy 
260 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

duty,  but  they  were  gradually  becom 
ing  modified  by  the  introduction  of  for 
eign  influences,  for  formerly  the  Indians 
would  not  have  suffered  among  them 
on  the  march  the  unsanctified  presence 
of  a  stranger  like  Ronald  MacDonnell. 
He  said  naught  in  reply  to  the  Etissu. 
His  mind  was  grimly  pre-occupied. 
He  was  busied  with  the  realization 
of  how  strong  he  was,  how  very 
strong.  These  lithe  Indians,  with  all 
their  supple  elasticity,  their  activity, 
had  no  such  staying  power  as  he,  no 
such  muscular  vitality.  He  was  think 
ing  what  resources  of  anguish  his  stal 
wart  physique  offered  for  the  hideous 
sport  of  the  torture;  how  his  stanch 
flesh  would  resist.  How  long,  how 
long  dying  he  would  be! 

The  terrors  of  capture  by  the  Chero- 
kees  had  been  by  Grant's  orders  de 
scribed  again  and  again  to  the  troops 
to  keep  the  rank  and  file  constant  to 
261 


CHOOLAH,   THE    CHICKASAW 

duty,  close  in  camp,  vigilant  on  out 
post,  and  alert  to  respond  to  the 
call  to  arms.  Never,  as  Ronald  right 
eously  repeated  this  grim  detail,  had 
he  imagined  he  would  ever  be  in  case 
to  remember  it  with  a  personal  appli 
cation.  He  now  protested  inwardly 
that  he  could  die  like  a  soldier.  Even 
from  the  extremity  of  physical  anguish 
he  had  never  shrunk.  But  the  hideous 
prospect  of  the  malice  of  human  fiends 
wreaked  for  hours  and  hours  upon 
every  quivering  nerve,  upon  every 
sensitive  fiber,  with  the  wonderful  in 
genuity  for  which  the  Cherokees  were 
famous,  made  him  secretly  wince  as 
he  crouched  there  among  the  friendly 
Chickasaws,  beneath  the  boughs  of  the 
rhododendron  splendidly  a-bloom  in 
the  moonlight,  while  the  rich,  pearly 
glamours  of  the  broken  disk  sunk  down 
and  down  the  sky,  and  the  dew  glim 
mered  on  the  full-fleshed  leaves,  and 
262 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

through  them  a  silver  glitter  from  the 
Tennessee  River  hard  by  struck  his 
eye,  and  a  break  in  the  woods,  where 
the  channel  curved,  showed  the  contour 
of  a  dome  of  the  Great  Smoky  Moun 
tains  limiting  the  instarred  heavens. 
As  he  looked  out  from  the  covert  of 
the  laurel — his  flaxen  hair  visible  here 
and  there  in  rings  on  his  sun-burned 
forehead,  from  which  his  blue  bonnet 
was  pushed  back ;  his  strongly  marked 
high  features,  hardly  so  immobile  as 
was  their  wont;  his  belt,  his  plaid,  his 
claymore,  all  the  details  of  that  ancient 
martial  garb,  readjusted  with  military 
precision  since  the  fight;  his  long, 
rawboned  figure,  lean  and  muscular, 
but  nevertheless  with  a  suggestion  of 
the  roundness  of  youth,  half  reclining, 
supported  on  one  arm — the  Indian 
gazed  at  him  with  questioning  intent- 
ness, 

Suddenly  Choolah  spoke. 
263 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

"  Angona"  (friend)  he  said,  with  a 
poignant  note  of  distrust,  "you  have 
a  thought  in  your  mind." 

It  was  seldom  indeed,  that  Ronald 
MacDonnell  could  have  been  thus 
accused.  He  changed  color  a  trifle, 
although  he  said,  hastily,  "Oh,  no, 
my  good  man,  not  at  all — not  at  all!" 

"Angonat  Angona!"  cried  Choolah, 
in  reproach. 

Perhaps  a  definite  recognition  of  this 
thought  in  his  mind  came  to  MacDon 
nell  with  the  fear  that  the  Chickasaw, 
who  so  easily  discerned  it,  would  pres 
ently  read  it.  "The  fearsome  Fox  that 
he  is,"  thought  Ronald  with  an  almost 
superstitious  thrill  at  his  heart. 

Naturally  he  could  not  know  how 
open  was  that  frank  face  of  his,  and 
that  the  keen  discernment  of  the 
savage,  though  perceiving  the  presence 
of  the  withheld  thought,  was  yet  in 
adequate  to  translate  its  meaning. 
264 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

This  thought  was  one  which  he  would 
in  no  wise  share  with  Choolah.  Mac- 
Donnell's  most  coherent  mental  process 
was  always  of  a  military  trend ;  without 
a  definite  effort  of  discrimination,  or 
even  voluntarily  reverting  to  the  events 
of  the  day,  it  had  suddenly  occurred  to 
him  that  the  Cherokee  with  the  essen 
tial  improvidence  of  the  Indian  nature, 
could  not  have  developed  that  plan  of 
attack  on  the  provision  train,  so  deter 
mined  and  definitely  designed,  so  diffi 
cult  to  repulse,  so  repeated,  renewed 
again  and  again  with  a  desperation  of 
the  extremest  sacrifice  to  the  end. 
And  small  wonder!  Its  success  would 
have  involved  the  practical  destruction 
of  Grant's  whole  army.  Hundreds  of 
miles  distant  from  any  sufficient  base 
of  supplies,  the  provision  train  was  the 
life  of  the  expedition.  The  beef-herds 
to  be  subsequently  driven  out  from 
the  province  to  Fort  Prince  George 
265 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

for  the  use  of  the  army  were  to  be 
timed  with  a  view  to  the  gradual  con 
sumption  of  the  provisions  already  fur 
nished,  and  to  communicate  by  mes 
senger  to  Charlestown,  now  distant 
nearly  four  hundred  miles,  the  disaster 
of  the  capture  of  stores  would  obvi 
ously  involve  a  delay  fatal  to  the 
troops. 

The  Indians,  however,  were  a  hand- 
to-mouth  nation.  Subsisting  on  the 
chances  of  game  in  their  long  hunts 
and  marches,  enduring  in  its  default 
incredible  rigors  of  hunger  as  a  matter 
of  course,  sustaining  life  and  even 
strength  when  in  hard  luck  by  roots 
and  fruits  and  nuts,  they  could  not 
have  realized  the  value  of  the  provision 
train  to  civilized  troops  who  must 
needs  have  beef  and  bacon,  flour  and 
tobacco,  soap  and  medicine — or  they 
cannot  fight.  There  was  but  one  ex 
planation — French  officers  were  among 
266 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

the  Cherokees  and  directed  these 
demonstrations.  Their  presence  had 
been  earlier  suspected,  and  this, 
Ronald  thought,  was  indisputable 
proof.  The  strange  selection  of  the 
ground  where  in  the  previous  year 
the  Cherokees  had  massed  in  force  and 
given  battle  to  Colonel  Montgomery's 
troops  had  occasioned  much  surprise, 
and  later  the  same  phenomenon 
occurred  in  their  engagements  with 
Colonel  Grant.  It  seemed  to  amount 
to  an  exhibition  of  an  intuitive  military 
genius.  No  great  captain  of  Europe, 
it  was  said,  could  have  acted  with  finer 
discernment  of  the  opportunities  and 
the  dangers,  could  with  greater  acu 
men  have  avoided  and  nullified  the 
risks.  But  Colonel  Grant,  who  was 
always  loath  to  accord  credit  to  aught 
but  military  science,  believed  the 
ground  was  chosen  by  men  who  had 
studied  the  tactics  of  the  great  cap- 
267 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

tains  of  Europe,  and  although  he 
had  learned  to  beware  of  the  wily 
devices  of  the  savage,  and  to  meet  his 
masked  fire  with  skulking  scouts  and 
native  allies,  fighting  in  their  own  way, 
he  preserved  all  the  precise  tactical 
methods  in  which  he  had  been  edu 
cated,  and  kept  a  sharp  edge  on  his 
expectation  for  the  warlike  feints  and 
strategy  of  the  equally  trained  French 
officer. 

If  he  could  only  meet  one  now, 
Ronald  MacDonnell  was  thinking.  In 
case  it  should  prove  impossible  to  cross 
the  river  and  rejoin  his  command,  if 
he  could  only  surrender  to  Johnny 
Crapaud ! 

To  be  sure  the  creature  spoke  French 
and  ate  frogs!  More  heinous  still  he 
was  always  a  Romanist,  and  diatribes 
on  the  wicked  sorceries  and  idolatries 
of  papistry  had  been  hurled  through 
MacDonnell's  consciousness  from  the 
268 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

Presbyterian  pulpit  since  his  earliest 
recollection.  But  a  soldier,  a  French 
officer — surely  he  would  be  acquainted 
with  higher  methods  than  the  barbari 
ties  of  the  savage;  he  would  be  in 
structed  in  the  humanities,  subject  to 
those  amenities  which  in  all  civilized 
countries  protect  a  prisoner  of  war. 
Surely  he  would  not  stand  by  and  see  a 
fellow-soldier — a  white  man,  a  Chris 
tian,  like  himself — put  to  the  torture 
and  the  stake.  And  if  his  authority 
could  not  avail  for  protection — "I'd 
beg  a  bullet  of  him  ;  in  charity  he  could 
not  deny  me  that !' '  If  the  opportunity 
were  but  vouchsafed,  MacDonnell 
resolved  to  appeal  to  the  Frenchman 
by  every  sanction  that  can  control  a 
gentleman,  by  their  fellow  feeling  as 
soldiers,  by  the  bond  of  their  common 
religion.  He  hesitated  a  moment, 
realizing  a  certain  hiatus  here,  a  gulf 
— and  then  he  reconciled  all  things 
269 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

with  a  triumphant  stroke  of  potent 
logic.  "They  may  call  it  idolatry  or 
Mariolatry,  if  they  want  to, —  but  I 
never  heard  anybody  deny  that  the 
Lord  did  have  a  mother.  And  it's  a 
mighty  good  thing  to  have!" 

This  was  the  thought  in  his  mind — 
the  chance,  the  hope  of  surrendering  to 
a  French  officer. 

The  stir  of  the  Indians  recalled  him. 
The  moon  was  lower  in  the  sky,  sinking 
further  and  further  toward  that  great 
purple  dome  of  the  many  summits  of 
the  Great  Smoky  Mountains.  All  the 
glistening  lines  of  light  upon  the  land 
scape — the  glossy  foliage,  the  shining 
river,  the  shimmering  mists — seemed 
drawn  along  as  if  some  fine-spun  seine, 
some  glittering  enmeshment  were  being 
hauled  into  the  boat-shaped  moon,  still 
rocking  and  riding  the  waves  off  the 
headlands  that  the  serrated  mountains 
thrust  forth  like  a  coast-line  on  the 
270 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

seas  of  the  sky.  Now  and  again  the 
voices  of  creatures  of  prey — wolves, 
panthers,  wildcats — came  shrilly  snarl 
ing  through  the  summer  night  from 
the  deep  interior  of  the  woods,  where 
they  wrangled  over  the  gain  that  the 
battle  had  wrought  for  them  in  the 
slain  of  horses  and  men, — of  the  Chero 
kee  force  doubtless;  MacDonnell  had 
scarcely  a  fear  that  these  were  of 
Grant's  command,  for  that  officer's 
care  for  such  protection  of  his  dead  as 
was  possible  was  always  immediate  and 
peculiarly  marked,  and  it  was  his 
habit  to  have  the  bodies  sunk  with 
great  weights  into  the  rivers  to  prevent 
the  scalping  of  them  by  the  Cherokees. 
Ronald  wearied  of  the  melancholy 
hours,  the  long,  long  night,  although 
light  would  have  but  added  dangers  of 
discovery.  It  was  the  lagging  time  he 
would  hasten,  would  fain  stride  into  the 
future  and  security,  so  did  the  suspense 
271 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

wear  on  his  nerves.  It  told  heavily  even 
on  the  Indian,  and  Ronald  felt  a  certain 
sympathy  when  Choolah's  half-sup 
pressed  voice  greeted  the  scout,  creep 
ing  into  the  grotto  once  more,  with  the 
wistful  inquiry,  "Onna  He-tak?"  (Is 
it  day?) 

But  the  news  that  the  Etissu  brought 
was  not  indeed  concerned  with  the 
hour.  In  his  opinion,  they  would  all 
soon  have  little  enough  to  do  with 
time.  His  intelligence  was  in  truth 
alarming.  While  the  Cherokees  patrol 
ling  the  river  had  gradually  withdrawn 
to  the  interior  of  the  forest  and  disap 
peared,  those  at  the  ford  above  were 
suspiciously  astir.  They  had  received 
evidently  some  intimation  of  the  pres 
ence  here  of  the  lurking  Chickasaws, 
and  were  on  the  watch.  To  seek  to 
flee  would  precipitate  an  instant  attack; 
to  escape  hence  would  be  merely  to  fall 
into  the  hands  of  the  marauders  in 
272 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

the  forest  beyond ;  to  plunge  into  the 
Tennessee  River  would  furnish  a  float 
ing  target  for  the  unerring  marksmen. 
Yet  the  crisis  was  immediate. 

Choolah  suddenly  raised  the  hand  of 
authority. 

Ronald  MacDonnell  had  seen  much 
service,  and  had  traveled  far  out  of 
the  beaten  paths  of  life.  He  was  born 
a  gentleman  of  good  means  and  of  long 
descent — for  if  the  MacDonnells  were 
to  be  believed,  Adam  was  hardly  a 
patch  upon  the  antiquity  of  the  great 
Clan-Colla.  He  had  already  made  an 
excellent  record  in  his  profession.  It 
seemed  to  him  the  veriest  reversal  of  all 
the  probabilities  that  he  should  now  be 
called  upon  to  take  his  orders  from 
Choolah  the  Fox,  the  savage  Chicka- 
saw.  Yet  he  felt  no  immediate  voca 
tion  for  the  command,  had  it  been 
within  his  reach.  With  all  his  mili 
tary  talent  and  training  he  could 
273 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

devise  no  other  resource  than  to  with 
stand  the  attack  of  the  larger  party 
with  half  their  number;  to  swim  the 
river,  and  drown  there  with  a  musket- 
ball  in  his  brain ;  to  flee  into  the  woods 
to  certain  capture.  He  watched,  there 
fore,  with  intensest  curiosity  the  move 
ments  of  the  men  under  Choolah's 
direction.  The  moon  was  now  very 
low,  the  light  golden,  dully  burnished, 
far-striking,  with  a  long  shadow.  First 
one,  then  another  of  the  Chickasaws 
showed  themselves  openly  upon  the 
bank  of  the  river  in  a  clear  space  high 
above  the  current  of  the  water.  Choo- 
lah  beckoned  to  the  Scotchman,  and 
MacDonnell  alertly  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  joined  the  wily  tactician  without  a 
question,  aware  that  he  was  assisting 
to  baffle  the  terrible  enemy.  His 
bonnet,  his  fluttering  plaid,  his  swing 
ing  claymore,  his  great  muscular 
height  and  long  stride,  all  defined 
274 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

in  the  moonlight  against  the  soft 
sky  and  the  mountains  beyond,  were 
enough  to  acquaint  the  watching 
Cherokees  with  the  welcome  fact  that 
here  was  not  only  an  enemy  but 
a  white  man  of  the  Highland  bat 
talion,  the  friends  of  the  Chickasaw. 
The  artful  Chickasaws  swiftly  and 
confusedly  came  and  went  from  the 
densities  of  the  laurel.  Impossible  it 
would  have  been  for  the  Cherokees  to 
judge  definitely  of  their  numbers,  so 
quickly  did  they  appear  and  disappear 
and  succeed  one  another.  Thus  clev 
erly  the  attack  was  postponed. 

Ronald  MacDonnell  gave  full  credit 
to  the  strategy  of  Choolah.  For  it 
would  now  seem — it  needs  must — that 
their  little  party  no  longer  feared  the 
enemies  in  the  quiet  woods!  They 
must  have  presumed  the  Cherokees  all 
gone!  The  Chickasaws  were  building 
a  fire  since  the  moon  was  sinking. 
275 


CHOOLAH,    THE    CHICKASAW 

Probably  they  felt  they  could  not 
lie  down  to  sleep  without  its  protection 
and  wolves  very  near  in  the  woods. 
Listen  to  that  shrill,  blood-curdling  cry ! 
They  were  surely  disposing  themselves 
to  rest !  Already  as  the  blaze  began  to 
leap  up  and  show  in  the  water  of  the 
river  below  like  a  great  red  jewel,  with 
the  deep  crystalline  lusters  of  a  many- 
faceted  ruby,  figures  might  be  seen 
by  the  flare  of  the  mounting  flames,  re 
cumbent  on  the  ground,  wrapped  in 
blankets ;  here  and  there  was  tartan,  an 
end  of  the  plaid  thrown  over  the  face  as 
the  Highlanders  always  slept ;  here  and 
there  a  hunting-shirt  and  leggings  were 
plainly  visible — all  lying  like  the  spokes 
of  a  wheel  around  the  central  point  of 
the  fire. 

"It  is  only  the  Muscogees  who  sleep 
in  line,"  Choolah  explained  to  Mac- 
Donnell,  who  had  criticised  the  disposi 
tion. 

276 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

The  crafty  Cherokees,  stealthily  ap 
proaching  ever  nearer  and  nearer,  had 
not  seen  in  the  first  feeble  glimmers  of 
the  flames  the  figures  of  the  seven  men 
crawling  gingerly  back  to  the  grotto  in 
the  covert  of  the  laurel,  leaving  around 
the  fire  merely  billets  of  wood  arrayed 
in  the  blankets  and  stolen  gear  which 
the  Owl  had  brought  off  from  the  bat 
tle-field. 

"But  I  am  always  in  the  wrong," 
plained  Oop-pa,  sarcastically.  "What 
would  you  and  the  big  tartan-man 
have  to  dress  those  warriors  in  if  I  had 
not  stayed  for  my  goods?" 

MacDonnell  had  urged  his  scruples. 
This  was  hardly  according  to  the  rules 
of  war.  "But  if  the  Cherokees  fire  on 
sleeping  men,"  he  argued — 

"Angona,"     the     wily     Chickasaw 
assured    him,  suavely,  "they  are    dis 
armed.     We   can   rush   out  and  over 
power  them  before  they  can  load." 
277 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

"They  ought  to  be  able  to  fire  three 
times  to  the  minute,"  thought  Mac- 
Donnell,  who  was  a  good  drill. 

But  the  Cherokees  were  not  held  to 
the  rigorous  manual  of  arms,  and  did 
not  attain  to  that  degree  of  dexterity 
considered  excellent  efficiency  in  that 
day  although  a  breech-loading  musket 
invented  by  Colonel  Patrick  Ferguson, 
who  met  his  death  at  King's  Moun 
tain,  was  capable  of  being  fired  seven 
times  a  minute,  and  was  used  not 
many  years  after  these  events,  with 
destructive  effect,  by  his  own  com 
mand  at  the  battle  of  the  Brandywine, 
in  1777. 

MacDonnell,  lying  prone  on  the 
ground  in  the  laurel,  his  face  barely 
lifted,  saw  the  last  segment  of  the 
moon  slip  down  behind  the  great 
mountain,  the  following  mists  glister 
in  the  after-glow  and  fade,  a  soft,  dull 
shadow  drop  upon  the  landscape  then 
278 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

sink  to  darkness,  and  in  the  blaze  of 
the  fire  a  quivering  feather-crested  head 
protrude  above  the  river-bank.  There 
were  other  crafty  approaches — here, 
there,  the  woods  seemed  alive!  Sud 
denly  an  alien  flare  of  light,  a  series  of 
funnel-shaped  evanescent  darts,  the 
simultaneous  crack  of  a  volley,  and  a 
dozen  swift  figures  dashed  to  the  scalp 
ing  of  their  victims  by  the  fire — to  lay 
hold  on  the  logs  in  the  likeness  of 
sleeping  men,  to  break  a  knife  in  the 
hard  fibers  of  one  that  seemed  to  stir, 
to  cry  aloud,  inarticulate,  wild,  frenzied 
in  rage,  in  amaze,  in  grief,  to  find 
themselves  at  the  mercy  of  the  Chicka- 
saws  darting  out  from  the  laurel! 

There  was  a  tumultuous  rush,  then  a 
frantic,  futile  attempt  to  reload;  two 
or  three  of  the  prisoners  wielding 
knives  with  undue  effect  were  shot 
down,  and  Choolah,  triumphant,  ma 
jestic  in  victory,  stately,  erect,  his 
279 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

crown  of  tall  white  swan's  feathers, 
his  glittering  fringes  of  roanoke,  the 
red  and  blue  of  his  glossy  war-paint, 
all  revealed  by  the  flaring  fire,  waved 
his  hand  to  his  "Angona"  to  call  upon 
him  to  admire  his  prowess  in  battle. 

The  next  moment  his  attention  was 
caught  by  a  sudden  swift  alarm  in  the 
face  of  one  of  the  Cherokees,  a  far 
away  glance  that  the  wily  Choolah  fol 
lowed  with  his  quick  eye.  Something 
had  happened  at  the  camp  the  Cher 
okees  had  abandoned — was  there  still 
movement  there? 

It  was  some  one  who  had  been 
away,  returning,  startled  to  see  the 
bivouac  fire  sunken  to  an  ember, — for 
the  Cherokees  had  let  it  die  out  to 
further  the  advantages  of  the  attack, — 
then  evidently  reassured  to  note  the 
flare  a  little  further  down  the  stream, 
as  if  the  camp  had  been  shifted  for 
some  reason. 

280 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

Choolah  drew  his  primed  and  loaded 
pistol.  No  Cherokee,  however,  would 
have  dared  to  venture  a  warning  sign. 
And  Ronald  MacDonnell,  with  what 
feelings  he  could  hardly  analyze,  could 
never  describe,  saw  leaping  along  the 
jagged  bank  of  the  river  toward  them 
a  white  man,  young,  active,  wearing  a 
gayly-fringed  hunting-shirt  and  leg 
gings  of  buckskin,  but  a  military  hat 
and  the  gorget  of  a  French  officer.  He 
was  among  them  before  he  saw  his 
mistake — his  fatal  mistake!  The  de 
lighted  shrieks  of  the  Chickasaws  over 
powered  every  sense,  filling  the  woods 
with  their  fierce  shrill  joy  and  seeming 
to  strike  against  the  very  sky,  "French! 
hottuk  ook-proo-se!"  (The  accursed 
people !) 

All  thought  of  caution,  all  fears  of 

wandering  Cherokees  were  lost  in  the 

supreme  ecstasy  of  their  triumph — the 

capture  of  one  of  the  detested  French, 

281 


CHOOLAH,   THE    CHICKASAW 

that  the  tribe  had  hated  with  an  incon 
ceivable  and  savage  rancor  for  genera 
tions. 

"Shukapa!  Shukapa!"  (Swine- 
eater!)  they  exclaimed  in  disgust  and 
derision,  for  the  aversion  of  the  Indi 
ans  to  pork  was  equaled  only  by  that 
of  the  Jews,  and  this  was  an  extreme 
expression  of  contempt. 

The  captive  was  handled  rudely 
enough  in  the  process  of  disarming 
him,  which  the  Owl  and  Choolah  ac 
complished,  while  his  Cherokees  stood 
at  the  muzzles  of  the  firelocks  of  the 
others.  There  was  blood  on  his  face 
and  hands  as  he  turned  a  glance  on 
the  Scotchman.  He  uttered  a  few 
eager  words  in  French,  unintelligible 
to  MacDonnell  save  the  civil  preface, 
11  Par  don,  Monsieur,  mais  puis-je  vous 
demander — " 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost  in 
the  fierce  derisive  shrieks  of  the  Chick- 
282 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

asaws  recognizing  the  inflections  of  the 
detested  language,  "Seente  soolish! 
Seente  soolish!"  (snake's  tongue!)  they 
vociferated. 

But  had  the  conclusion  of  the  request 
been  audible  it  would  have  been  in 
comprehensible  to  Ronald  MacDon- 
nell. 

The  impassive  Highlander  silently 
shook  his  head,  and  a  certain  fixity  of 
despair  settled  on  the  face  of  the 
French  officer.  It  was  a  young  face — 
he  seemed  not  more  than  twenty-five, 
MacDonnell  thought.  It  was  narrow, 
delicately  molded,  with  very  bright 
eyes,  that  had  a  sort  of  youthful 
daring  in  them — adventurous  looking 
eyes.  They  were  gray,  with  long 
black  lashes  and  strongly  defined 
eyebrows.  His  complexion  was  of 
a  clear  healthy  pallor,  his  hair  dark 
but  a  trifle  rough,  and  braided  in 
the  usual  queue.  So  often  did  Ronald 
283 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

MacDonnell  have  to  describe  this  man, 
both  on  paper  and  off,  that  every  detail 
of  his  appearance  grew  very  familiar  to 
him.  The  stranger's  lips  were  red  and 
full,  and  the  upper  one  was  short  and 
curving;  he  did  not  laugh  or  smile,  of 
course,  but  he  showed  narrow  white 
teeth,  for  now  and  again  he  gasped  as 
if  for  breath,  and  more  than  once  that 
sensitive  upper  lip  quivered.  Not 
that  Ronald  MacDonnell  ever  gave  the 
portraiture  in  this  simple  wise,  for  his 
descriptions  were  long  and  involved, 
minute  and  yet  vague,  and  proved  the 
despair  of  all  interested  in  fixing  the 
identity  of  the  man ;  but  gleaning  from 
his  accounts  this  is  the  way  the 
stranger  must  have  appeared  to  the 
young  Scotchman.  His  figure  was  tall 
and  lightly  built,  promising  more 
activity  than  muscular  force,  and  while 
one  hand  was  held  on  the  buckle  of  his 
belt,  the  left  went  continually  to  the 
284 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

hilt  of  a  sword,  which  he  did  not  wear, 
but  the  habit  was  betrayed  by  this 
gesture.  There  was  nothing  about  him 
to  intimate  his  rank,  beyond  the  gorget, 
and  on  this  point  Ronald  MacDonnell 
could  never  give  any  satisfaction. 

The  Indian  is  seldom  immoderate  in 
laughter,  but  Choolah  could  not  re 
strain  his  wicked  mirth  to  discover  that 
the  two  officers  could  not  speak  to 
each  other.  And  yet  the  pale-faces 
were  so  often  amazed  that  the  Cherokees 
and  the  Chickasaws  and  the  Creeks  had 
not  the  same  language,  as  if  a  variety  of 
tongues  were  thrown  away  on  the  poor 
Indian,  who  might  well  be  expected  to 
put  up  with  one  speech !  For  only  the 
Chickasaw  and  Choctaw  dialects  were 
inter-comprehensible,  both  tribes  being 
descended,  it  is  said,  from  the  ancient 
Chickemicaws,  and  in  fact  much  of  the 
variation  in  their  speech  was  but  a  mat 
ter  of  intonation.  The  tears  of  mirth 
285 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

stood  in  Choolah's  eyes.  He  held  his 
hand  to  his  side — he  could  scarcely  calm 
himself,  even  when  he  discerned  a  spe 
cial  utility  in  this  lack  of  a  medium  of 
communication,  for  the  enterprising 
scout  came  back  once  more  to  say 
that  there  were  some  Chickasaws 
lower  down  on  the  river,  where  the 
ford  was  better.  Choolah  received 
this  assurance  with  most  uncommon 
demonstrations  of  pleasure,  evidently 
desiring  their  assistance  in  guarding 
the  prisoners  to  Grant's  camp,  being 
ambitious  of  securing  the  com 
mander's  commendation  and  intend 
ing  to  afford  ocular  proof  of  his  ex 
ploit  by  exhibiting  the  number  of 
his  captives.  But  MacDonnell  de 
tected  a  high  note  of  elation  in 
Choolah's  voice  which  no  mere  pride 
could  evoke,  and  he  recognized  a 
danger  signal.  He  instantly  bethought 
himself  of  the  fate  at  the  hands  of  the 
286 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

Chickasaws,  more  than  a  score  of  years 
before,  of  the  gallant  D'Artaguette, 
the  younger,  and  his  brave  lieutenant 
Vincennes,  burned  at  the  stake  by 
slow  fires,  after  their  unhappy  defeat 
at  the  fortified  town,  Ash-wick-boo-ma 
(Red  Grass),  the  noble  Jesuit,  Se"nat, 
sharing  their  death,  although  he  might 
have  escaped,  remaining  to  comfort 
their  last  moments  with  his  ghostly 
counsels. 

MacDonnell  listened  as  warily  to 
the  talk  as  he  might,  and  although 
Choolah  said  no  more  than  was  emi 
nently  natural  in  planning  to  turn 
over  his  prisoners  to  these  Chickasaws 
by  reason  of  their  superior  numbers, 
MacDonnell's  alert  sense  detected  the 
same  vibration  when  he  expressed  his 
decision  to  leave  the  Etissu  and  the 
Highland  officer  to  guard  the  French 
man  till  his  return. 


287 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

"Then  we  will  together  cross  the 
Tennessee  river  here,"  he  said. 

MacDonnell  yawned  widely  as  he 
nodded  his  head,  his  hand  over  his 
stretched  mouth  and  shielding  his  face. 
He  would  not  trust  its  expression  to 
the  discerning  Choolah,  for  he  had 
again  that  infrequent  guest,  "a.  thought 
in  his  mind." 

In  truth,  Choolah  had  no  inten 
tion  to  take  the  Frenchman  to  Grant's 
camp.  The  praise  he  would  receive 
as  a  reward  was  a  petty  consideration 
indeed  as  compared  with  the  delights 
of  torturing  and  burning  so  rare,  so 
choice  a  victim  as  a  French  officer. 
To  be  sure  his  excuse  must  be  good 
and  devised  betimes,  for  Colonel  Grant 
was  squeamish  and  queer,  objecting  to 
the  scalping  and  burning  of  prisoners, 
and  seemed  indeed  at  times  of  a  weak 
stomach  in  regard  to  such  details.  And 
that  came  about  naturally  enough.  He 
288 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

did  not  fast,  as  behooves  a  war-captain. 
He  ate  too  much  on  the  war-path.  He 
had  two  cooks !  He  had  also  a  man  to 
dress  his  hair,  and  another  to  groom 
his  horse.  Naturally  his  heart  had 
softened,  and  he  was  averse  to  the 
stern  pleasures  of  recompensing  an 
enemy  with  the  anguish  of  the  stake. 
This  Choolah  intended  to  enjoy,  sum 
moning  the  Chickasaws  at  the  ford 
below  to  the  scene  of  his  triumph. 
Besides  it  requires  a  number  of  able- 
bodied  assistants  to  properly  roast  in 
wet  weather  a  vigorous  and  protesting 
captive.  The  Scotchman  should  sus 
pect  naught  until  his  return.  True, 
he  might  not  object,  for  were  not  the 
French  as  ever  the  inveterate  enemies 
of  the  English?  But  if  he  should  it 
could  avail  naught  against  the  will 
of  a  round  dozen  or  more  of  Chicka 
saws.  Besides,  was  not  the  prisoner 
of  the  detested  nation  of  the  French 
289 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

— Nana-Ubat?  (Nothings  and  broth 
ers  to  nothing.)  Nevertheless,  it  was 
well  they  could  not  speak  to  each 
other  and  possibly  canvass  fears  and 
offer  persuasions.  He  could  spare 
only  one  man,  the  scout,  to  aid  in  the 
watch,  but  he  felt  quite  assured. 
Ronald  MacDonnell  was  always  noto 
riously  vigilant  and  exacting,  and  was 
held  in  great  fear  by  guards  and  out 
posts  and  sentinels,  lor  often  his  rounds 
were  attended  by  casualties  in  the  way 
of  reprimand,  and  arrests,  and  guard- 
tent  sojourns  and  discipline.  Choolah 
felt  quite  safe  as  he  set  off  at  a  brisk 
pace  with  his  squad  of  four  Chicka- 
saws,  driving  the  disarmed  Cherokees, 
silent  and  sullen,  before  him. 

They  were  hardly  out  of  sight  when 
MacDonnell,  kicking  the  enveloping 
blanket  out  of  the  way,  sat  down  on 
one  of  the  logs  by  the  fire  and  spread 
his  big  bony  hands  out  to  the  blaze. 
290 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

It  was  growing  chill;  the  June  night 
was  wearing  on  toward  the  dawn;  it 
was  that  hour  of  reduced  vitality  when 
hope  seems  of  least  value,  and  the 
blood  runs  low,  and  conscience  grows 
keen,  and  the  future  and  the  past  bear 
heavily  alike  on  the  present.  The 
prisoner  was  shivering  slightly.  He 
glanced  expectantly  at  the  Scotchman's 
impassive  countenance.  No  man  knew 
better  than  Ronald  MacDonnell  the 
churlishness  of  a  lack  of  consideration 
of  the  comfort  of  others  in  small  mat 
ters.  No  man  could  offer  little  atten 
tions  more  genially.  They  comported 
essentially  with  his  evident  breeding, 
and  his  rank  in  the  army;  once  more 
the  prisoner  looked  expectantly  at 
him,  and  then,  wounded,  like  a  French 
man,  as  for  a  host's  lack  of  considera 
tion,  he  sat  down  on  a  log  uninvited, 
casting  but  one  absent  glance,  from 
which  curiosity  seemed  expunged,  at 
291 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

the  effigies  which  explained  how  the 
Cherokees  came  to  their  fate.  It  mat 
tered  little  now,  his  emotional,  sensi 
tive  face  said.  Naught  mattered! 
Naught !  Naught ! 

In  the  sudden  nervous  shock  his 
vitality  was  at  its  lowest  ebb.  He 
could  not  spread  his  hands  to  the  blaze, 
for  his  arms  had  been  pinioned  cruelly 
tight.  He  shivered  again,  for  the  fire 
was  low.  MacDonnell  noticed  it,  but 
he  did  not  stir;  perhaps  he  thought 
Johnny  Crapaud  would  soon  find  the 
fire  hot  enough.  The  scout  himself 
mended  it,  as  he  sat  tailorwise  on  the 
ground  between  the  other  two  men. 
Now  and  again  the  Etissu  gazed  at  Mac- 
Donnell's  impassive,  rather  lowering 
countenance,  with  a  certain  awe;  if  he 
had  expected  the  officer  to  show  the 
squeamishness  which  Colonel  Grant 
developed  in  such  matters,  or  any 
pity,  he  was  mistaken ;  then  he  looked 
292 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

with  curiosity  at  the  Frenchman.  The 
prisoner's  lips  were  vaguely  moving, 
and  Ronald  MacDonnell  caught  a  sug 
gestion  of  the  sound — half-whispered 
words,  not  French,  or  he  would  not 
have  understood;  Latin! — paters  and 
aves!  As  he  had  expected  —  frogs, 
papistry,  French,  and  fool! 

''What's  that?"  the  Highland  officer 
said,  so  suddenly  that  the  scout  started 
in  affright. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  Indian;  "the 
wind,  perhaps." 

"Sticks  cracking  in  the  laurel — a 
bear,  perhaps,"  suggested  MacDon 
nell,  taking  up  a  loaded  musket  and 
laying  it  across  his  knee.  Then  "Only 
a  bear, ' '  he  repeated  reassuringly. 

"Choolah  ought  to  leave  more  men 
here,"  said  the  Etissu. 

"It's  nothing!"  declared  MacDon 
nell,  rising  and  looking  warily  about. 
"Perhaps  Choolah  on  his  way  back." 
293 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

The  scout  was  true  to  his  vagrant 
tendencies,  or  perhaps  because  of 
those  tendencies  he  felt  himself  safer 
in  the  dense,  impenetrable  jungle, 
crawling  along  flat  like  a  lizard  or  a 
snake,  than  seated  perched  up  here  on 
a  bluff  by  a  flaring  camp-fire  with  only 
two  other  men,  a  mark  for  "  Brown 
Bess" — the  Cherokees  were  all  armed 
with  British  muskets,  although  they 
were  in  revolt,  and  perhaps  it  was  one 
reason  why  they  were  in  revolt — for 
many  a  yard  up  and  down  the  Ten 
nessee  River.  "I  go  see,''  he  sug 
gested. 

"No,  no,"  said  MacDonnell,  "only 
a  bear." 

"I  come  back  soon,"  declared  the 
Etissu,  half  crouching  and  gazing 
about,  "soon,  soon.  Alooska,  Ko-e-u- 
que-ho. "  (I  do  not  lie,  I  do  not  indeed.) 

MacDonnell  lifted  his  head  and 
gazed  about  with  a  frowning  mien  of 
294 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

reluctance  liMaia  cha!"  (Go  along)  he 
said  at  last.  Then  called  out,  "Come 
back  soon,"  as  his  attention  returned 
to  the  priming  and  loading  of  a  pistol 
which  he  had  in  progress.  "Soon! 
remember!" 

The  scout  was  off  like  a  rabbit.  For 
a  moment  or  two  MacDonnell  did  not 
lift  his  eyes,  while  they  heard  him 
crashing  through  the  thicket.  Then 
as  he  looked  up  he  met  the  dull  despair 
in  the  face  of  the  bound  and  helpless 
Frenchman.  It  mattered  little  to  him 
who  came,  who  went.  He  gasped 
suddenly  in  amazement.  The  High 
land  officer  was  gazing  at  him  with  a 
genial,  boyish  smile,  reassuring,  almost 
tender. 

"Run,  now,  run  for  your  life!"  he 
said,  leaning  forward,  and  with  a  pass 
or  two  of  a  knife  he  severed  the  pris 
oner's  bonds. 

In  the  revulsion  of  feeling  the  man 
295 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

seemed  scarcely  able  to  rise  to  his  feet. 
There  were  tears  in  his  eyes;  his  face 
quivered  as  he  looked  at  his  deliverer. 

"Danger — big  fire — burn,"  said  the 
astute  MacDonnell,  as  if  the  English 
words  thus  detached  were  more  com 
prehensible  to  the  French  limitations. 
Perhaps  his  gestures  aided  their  effect, 
and  as  he  held  out  his  hand  in  his 
whole-souled,  genial  way,  the  French 
man  grasped  it  in  a  hard  grip  of  fervent 
gratitude  and  started  off  swiftly.  The 
next  moment  the  young  officer  turned 
back,  caught  the  British  soldier  in  his 
arms,  and  to  MacDonnell's  everlasting 
consternation  kissed  him  in  the  foreign 
fashion,  first  on  one  cheek  and  then 
on  the  other. 

Ronald  MacDonnell's  mess  often 
preyed  upon  the  disclosures  which  his 
open,  ingenuous  nature  afforded  them. 
But  his  simplicity  stopped  far  short  of 
revealing  to  them  this  Gallic  demon- 
296 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

stration  of  gratitude — so  exquisitely 
ludicrous  it  seemed  to  his  unemotional 
methods  and  mind.  They  were  de 
barred  the  pleasure  of  racking  him  on 
this  circumstance.  They  never  knew 
it.  He  disclosed  it  only  years  after 
ward,  and  then  by  accident,  to  a  mem 
ber  of  his  own  family. 

The  whole  affair  seemed  to  the  mess 
serious  enough.  For  the  Chickasaws, 
baffled  and  furious,  had  threatened  his 
life  on  their  return,  reinforced  by  a 
dozen  excited,  elated,  expectant  tribes 
men,  laden  with  light  wood  and  a 
chain,  to  find  their  prisoner  gone. 
But  after  the  first  wild  outburst  of 
rage  and  despair  Choolah,  although 
evidently  strongly  tempted  to  force 
the  Highlander  to  the  fate  from  which 
he  had  rescued  the  French  officer,  re 
solved  to  preserve  the  integrity  of  his 
nation's  pledge  of  amity  with  the 
British,  and  restrained  his  men  from 
297 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

offering  injury.  This  was  rendered 
the  more  acceptable  to  him,  as  with 
his  alert  craft  he  perceived  a  keen 
retribution  for  Ronald  MacDonnell  in 
the  displeasure  of  his  commanding 
officer,  for  the  Chickasaws  well  under 
stood  the  discipline  of  the  army,  which 
they  chose  to  disregard.  To  better 
enlist  the  prejudice  of  Colonel  Grant, 
Choolah  was  preparing  himself  to  dis 
tort  the  facts.  He  upbraided  Ronald 
MacDonnell  with  causelessly  liberating 
a  prisoner,  a  Frenchman  and  an  officer, 
taken  by  the  wily  exploit  of  another. 
As  to  the  dry  wood,  he  said,  the 
Chickasaws  had  merely  brought  some 
drift,  long  stranded  in  a  cave  by  the 
waterside,  to  replenish  the  fire,  kindled 
with  how  great  difficulty  in  the  soak 
ing  condition  of  the  forests  the  Lieu 
tenant  well  knew. 

"Hout! — just    now    when    we    are 
about  to  cross  the  river?"  cried  Ronald, 
298 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

unmasking  the  subterfuge.      "And  for 
what  then  that  stout  chain?" 

The  chain,  Choolah  protested,  was 
but  part  of  the  equipment  of  one  of  the 
pack  animals  that  had  broken  away  and 
had  been  plundered  by  the  Cherokees. 
Did  the  Lieutenant  Plaidman  think  he 
wanted  to  chain  the  prisoner  to  the 
stake  to  burn?  He  had  had  no  dream 
of  such  a  thing!  It  was  not  the  cus 
tom  of  the  Chickasaws  to  waste  so 
much  time  on  a  prisoner.  It  was  suffi 
cient  to  cut  him  up  in  quarters; 
that  usually  killed  him  dead, — quite 
dead  enough!  But  if  the  Lieutenant 
had  had  a  chain,  since  he  knew  so  well 
the  use  of  one,  doubtless  he  himself 
would  have  joyed  to  burn  the  prisoner, 
provided  it  had  been  his  own  exploit 
that  had  taken  him, — for  did  not 
the  Carolinians  of  the  provincial  regi 
ment  say  that  when  the  Tartan  men 
were  at  home  they  were  as  wild  and 
299 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

as  uncivilized  as  the  wildest  Cherokee 
savage ! 

"Holauba!  Holauba!  Feenah!"  (It 
is  a  lie.  It  is  a  lie,  undoubtedly), 
cried  the  phlegmatic  MacDonnell,  ex 
cited  to  a  frenzy.  He  spoke  in  the 
Chickasaw  language,  that  the  insult 
might  be  understood  as  offered  with 
full  intention. 

But  Choolah  did  not  thus  receive  it. 
In  the  simplicity  of  savage  life  lies  are 
admittedly  the  natural  incidents  of 
conversation.  He  addressed  himself 
anew  to  argument.  At  home  the 
Tartan  men  lived  in  mountains, — just 
like  the  Cherokees, — and  no  wonder 
they  were  undismayed  by  the  war 
whoops  —  they  had  heard  the  like 
before!  Savages  themselves!  They 
had  a  language,  too,  that  the  Caro 
linians  could  not  speak;  he  himself 
had  heard  it  among  the  Highlanders 
of  Grant's  camp — doubtless  it  was  the 
300 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

Cherokee  tongue,  for  they  were  mere 
Cherokees ! 

"Holauba!  Holauba!  Feenah!"  No 
denial  could  be  more  definite  than  the 
tone  and  the  words  embodied. 

The  wily  Choolah,  maliciously  de 
lighted  with  his  power  to  pierce  the 
heart  of  the  proud  Scotchman  thus, 
turned  the  knife  anew.  Did  not  the 
provincials  declare  that  the  High 
landers  at  home  were  always  beaten 
in  war,  as  they  would  be  here  but  for 
the  help  of  the  Carolinians? 

"Holauba!  Holauba!  Feenah!"  pro 
tested  Ronald  resolutely,  thinking  of 
Preston  Pans  and  Falkirk. 

For  the  usual  emulous  bickering 
between  regulars  and  provincials,  which 
seems  concomitant  with  every  war,  had 
appeared  in  full  force  in  this  expedi 
tion,  the  provincials  afterward  claim 
ing  that  but  for  them  and  their  Indian 
allies  no  remnant  of  the  British  force 
301 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

would  have  returned  alive;  and  the 
regulars  declaring  that  the  Carolinians 
knew  nothing,  and  could  learn  nothing 
of  discipline  and  method  in  warfare, 
laying  great  stress  on  the  fact  that  this 
was  the  second  campaign  to  which 
the  British  soldiers  had  been  summoned 
for  the  protection  of  the  province, 
which  could  not  without  them  defend 
itself  against  the  Cherokees,  and  assum 
ing  the  entire  credit  of  the  subjuga 
tion  of  that  warlike  tribe  that  had  for 
nearly  a  century  past  desolated  at 
intervals  the  Carolina  borders. 

Although  it  had  been  Choolah's 
hope  that,  by  means  of  provoking 
against  the  Lieutenant  the  displeasure 
of  his  superior  officer,  he  might  re 
venge  himself  upon  MacDonnell,  for 
snatching  from  the  Chickasaws  the 
peculiar  racial  delight  of  torturing  the 
French  prisoner,  the  Indians  had  no 
anticipation  of  the  gravity  of  the  crisis 
302 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

when  they  came  to  the  camp  with 
the  details  of  the  occurrence,  which, 
to  Colonel  Grant's  annoyance,  tallied 
with  MacDonnell's  own  report  of  him 
self. 

For  there  was  a  question  in  Colonel 
Grant's  mind  whether  the  prisoner 
were  not  the  redoubtable  Louis 
Latinac,  who  had  been  so  incredibly 
efficient  in  the  French  interest  in  this 
region,  and  who  had  done  more  to 
excite  the  enmity  of  the  Cherokees 
against  their  quondam  allies,  the  Brit 
ish,  and  harass  his  Majesty's  troops 
than  a  regiment  of  other  men  could 
accomplish.  When  Grant  tended  to 
this  opinion,  a  court-martial  seemed 
impending  over  the  head  of  the  young 
officer. 

"What  was  your  reason  for  this 
extraordinary  course?"  Colonel  Grant 
asked. 

And  Ronald  MacDonnell  answered 
303 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

that  he  had  granted  to  his  prisoner 
exactly  what  he  had  intended  to  de 
mand  of  his  captor  had  the  situation 
been  reversed — to  adjure  him  by  their 
fellow  feeling  as  soldiers,  by  the  cus 
toms  of  civilized  warfare,  by  the  bond 
of  a  common  religion,  to  save  him  from 
torture  by  savages. 

"Can  a  gentleman  give  less  than  he 
would  ask?"  he  demanded. 

And  when  Colonel  Grant  would  urge 
that  he  should  have  trusted  to  his 
authority  to  protect  the  prisoner, 
Ronald  would  meet  the  argument  with 
the  counter-argument  that  the  Indians 
respected  no  authority,  and  in  cases 
of  fire  it  would  not  do  to  take  chances. 

"Why  did  you  not  at  least  exact  a 
parole?" 

"Lord,  sir,  we  couldn't  talk  at  all!" 
said  Ronald,  conclusively.  "In  com 
mon  humanity,  I  was  obliged  to  re 
lease  him  or  shoot  him,  and  I  could 
304 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

not  shoot  an  unarmed  prisoner  to  save 
my  life — not  if  I  were  to  be  shot  for  it 
myself." 

Lieutenant  -  Colonel  Grant's  heart 
was  well  known  to  be  soft  in  spots. 
He  has  put  it  upon  record  in  the  pre 
vious  campaign  against  the  Cherokees 
that  he  could  not  help  pitying  them  a 
little  in  the  destruction  of  their  homes, 
— it  is  said,  however,  that  after  this 
later  expedition  his  name  was  incor 
porated  in  the  Cherokee  language  as  a 
synonym  of  devastation  and  a  cry  of 
warning.  He  was  overcome  by  the  con 
siderations  urged  upon  him  by  the  Lieu 
tenant  until  once  more  the  possibility 
loomed  upon  the  horizon  that  it  was 
Louis  Latinac  who  had  escaped  him, 
when  he  would  feel  that  noth 
ing  but  Ronald  MacDonnell's  best 
heart's  blood  could  atone  for  the  re 
lease.  To  set  this  much  vexed  ques 
tion  at  rest  the  young  officer  was 
305 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

repeatedly  required  to  describe  the 
personal  appearance  of  the  stranger, 
and  thus  it  was  that  poor  Ronald's 
verbal  limitations  were  brought  so  con 
spicuously  forward.  "A  fine  man," 
he  would  say  one  day,  and  in  giving 
the  details  of  that  sensitive  emotional 
countenance  which  had  so  engaged  his 
interest  that  momentous  night  —  its 
force,  its  suggestiveness,  its  bright, 
alert  young  eyes,  would  intimate  that 
he  had  indeed  held  the  motive  power 
of  the  Cherokee  war  in  his  hand,  and 
had  heedlessly  loosed  it  as  a  child 
might  release  a  butterfly.  The  next 
day  "a  braw  callant"  was  about  the 
sum  of  his  conclusions,  and  Colonel 
Grant  would  be  certain  that  the  inci 
dent  represented  no  greater  matter 
than  the  escape  of  a  brisk  subaltern, 
like  Ronald  himself.  In  the  course 
of  Colonel  Grant's  anxious  vacillations 
of  opinion,  the  young  Highlander 
306 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

was  given  to  understand  that  he 
would  be  instantly  placed  under  arrest, 
but  for  the  fact  that  every  officer  of 
experience  was  urgently  needed.  And 
indeed  Colonel  Grant  presently  had 
his  hands  quite  full,  fighting  a  Furious 
battle  only  the  ensuing  day  with 
the  entire  Cherokee  nation. 

The  Indians  attacked  his  outposts  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  with 
their  full  strength  engaged  the  main 
body,  fighting  in  their  individual,  skulk 
ing,  masked  manner,  but  with  fierce 
persistency  for  three  hours;  then  the 
heat  of  the  conflict  began  to  gradually 
wane,  although  they  did  not  finally 
draw  off  till  two  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon.  It  was  the  last  struggle  of  the 
Cherokee  war.  Helpless  or  desper 
ate,  the  Indians  watched  without  so 
much  as  a  shot  from  ambush  the  deso 
lation  of  their  country.  For  thirty 
days  Colonel  Grant's  forces  remained 
307 


CHOOLAH,  THE   CHICKASAW 

among  the  fastnesses  of  the  Great 
Smoky  Mountains,  devastating  those 
beautiful  valleys,  burning  "  the  aston 
ishing  magazines  of  corn/'  and  the 
towns,  which  Grant  states,  were  so 
"  agreeably  situated,  the  houses  neatly 
built."  Often  the  troops  were  con 
strained  to  march  under  the  beetling 
heights  of  those  stupendous  ranges, 
whence  one  might  imagine  a  sharp 
musketry  fire  would  have  destroyed 
the  dense  columns,  almost  to  the  last 
man.  Perhaps  the  inability  of  the 
French  to  furnish  the  Cherokees  with 
the  requisite  ammunition  for  this  cam 
paign  may  explain  the  abandonment  of 
a  region  so  calculated  for  effective 
defense. 

Aside  from  the  losses  in  slain  and 
wounded  in  the  engagement,  the  expe 
ditionary  force  suffered  much,  for  the 
hardships  of  the  campaign  were  ex 
treme.  Having  extended  the  frontier 
308 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

westward  by  seventy  miles,  and  with 
drawing  slowly,  in  view  of  the  gradual 
exhaustion  of  his  supplies,  Colonel 
Grant  found  the  feet  of  his  infantry  so 
mangled  by  the  long  and  continuous 
marches  in  the  rugged  country  west  of 
the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  that  he 
was  forced  to  go  into  permanent  camp 
on  returning  to  Fort  Prince  George,  to 
permit  the  rest  and  recovery  of  the 
soldiers,  who  in  fact  could  march  no 
further,  as  well  as  to  await  some  action 
on  the  part  of  the  Cherokee  rulers  look 
ing  to  the  conclusion  of  a  peace. 

A  delegation  of  chiefs  presently 
sought  audience  of  him  here  and 
agreed  to  all  the  stipulations  of  the 
treaty  formulated  in  behalf  of  the 
province  except  one,  viz.,  that  four 
Cherokees  should  be  delivered  up  to 
be  put  to  death  in  the  presence  of 
Colonel  Grant's  army,  or  that  four 
green  scalps  should  be  brought  to  him 
309 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

within  the  space  of  twelve  nights. 
With  this  article  the  chiefs  declared 
they  had  neither  the  will  nor  the  power 
to  comply, — and  very  queerly  indeed, 
it  reads  at  this  late  day! 

Colonel  Grant,  perhaps  willing  to 
elude  the  enforcement  of  so  unpleas 
ant  a  requisition,  conceived  that  it  lay 
within  his  duty  to  forward  the  delega 
tion,  under  escort,  to  Charlestown  to 
seek  to  induce  Governor  Bull  to  miti 
gate  its  rigor. 

It  was  in  this  connection  that  he 
alluded  again  to  the  release  of  the 
prisoner,  captured  in  the  exploit  of 
Choolah,  the  Chickasaw,  although  in 
conversation  with  his  officers  he 
seemed  to  Ronald  MacDonnell  to  be 
speaking  only  of  the  impracticable 
stipulation  of  the  treaty,  and  his  cer 
tainty  that  compliance  would  not  be 
required  of  the  Cherokees  by  the  Gov 
ernor —  and  in  fact  the  terms  finally 
310 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

signed  at  Charlestown,  on  the  loth  of 
December  of  that  year,  were  thus 
moderated,  leaving  the  compact  prac 
tically  the  same  as  in  the  previous 
treaty  of  1759. 

"I  could  agree  to  no  such  stipula 
tion  if  the  case  were  mine,"  Colonel 
Grant  declared,  "that  four  of  my  sol 
diers,  as  a  mere  matter  of  intimida 
tion,  should  be  surrendered  to  be 
executed  in  the  presence  of  the  enemy! 
Certainly,  as  a  gentleman  and  a  sol 
dier,  a  man  cannot  require  of  an 
enemy  more  than  he  himself  would 
be  justified  in  yielding  if  the  circum 
stances  were  reversed,  or  grant  to  an 
enemy  less  favor  than  he  himself  could 
rightfully  ask  at  his  hands." 

Ronald  MacDonnell  had  forgotten 
his  own  expression  of  this  sentiment. 
It  appealed  freshly  to  him,  and  he 
thought  it  decidedly  fine.  He  did  not 
recognize  a  flag  of  truce  except  as  a 


CHOOLAH,  THE    CHICKASAW 

veritable  visible  white  rag,  and  from 
time  to  time  he  experienced  much  sur 
prise  that  Colonel  Grant  did  not  order 
him  under  arrest  as  a  preliminary  to  a 
court  martial. 


312 


PRINTED  BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY 
AND  SONS  COMPANY  AT  THE 
LAKESIDE  PRESS,  CHICAGO,  ILL. 


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